Brought to You by Murder
by Antje
Summary: Months have flown by since Shawn's investigated anything more than a sock lost in the laundry. But enjoying his other talents, and keeping his and Lassie's house clean (for once) soon loses some appeal: An old mystery rises from the dust of Shawn's and Gus's childhood, reviving interest and curiosity. SS/CL. JO/BG.
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings**: Welcome to life after Psych, everybody!

**Notes**: Continued from Apply Liberally at Sunrise. You might like to read/skim that first. Mentions (and uses as part of the plot) the unfinished sequel to ALaS, The Vintage Crimes of Christopher Sly (as "the Hayworth case"). - I don't know how often I'll be able to work on this, but there's at least one more chapter and I have an idea how it's going to go. Comments keep me inspired. Follow the story if you'd like to know about its random updates! A link to chapter one story notes is in my profile. Thanks to all readers!  
**Note **(16 July 2014): I'm trying to fix the random typos as fast as I can. Also, I finished writing this story: it's fourteen chapters. If you like it, please consider leaving a one- or two-word review!

**Warnings**: Pretty much ignores show canon, especially after season four. (Some recent things may get a mention here and there.) Ignores show continuity, about as much as Psych ignored(!) its own continuity through the years.

**Pairings**: Shawn x Carlton (established); Juliet x Gus (established); Dobson x Dobson's Mike (oc).

-x-

_1987_…

It dawned on Shawn that he was getting older. For a while, he walked around with this burden of age sitting on his shoulders. His mother noticed his pompous strut. She asked him about it, just once; it was always funny to hear Shawn's unpredictable answers.

"I'm trying to respect myself, Mom."

Shawn usually said her name-noun like it was the epitome of important, the epitome of epitome, a fact in fact. If Maddie wasn't already chuckling, she would be in another second.

"Why the sudden burst of self-respect?"

Most eleven-year-old boys would cower at the idea of liking themselves to the point of admitting it aloud. For a blistering moment, Maddie worried that Shawn's ego might inflate a little _too _insupportably. Lord help Henry if it did!

"Well," Shawn shimmied into a chair at the table, eyeing a cookie on a plate and trying to decide what kind it was, "it's not so much self-respect as it is a kind of—of _awareness_."

Maddie folded the damp dishcloth into quarters, ignoring the tickling in the back of her throat. She coughed a little. An ant on the counter derailed her humor. "An awareness of what, Shawn? You're being cryptic. Is this about a girl?"

"Nah, no girls. I'm my own man."

"A boy at school?" Lord help Henry if it was!

Shawn just shot her a quizzical expression. After a nibble of cookie, a sip of milk, he thought he'd uncovered her motive. "Are you trying to distract me? You play with people's heads for a living."

"I don't—"

"That's what Dad says."

"Your father's not always right."

"Yeah, that's something you and I can definitely agree on! Want a cookie?" He offered her the third and final specimen of sugary goodness.

Maddie, unable to resist, and knowing he wouldn't want her around much longer—soon there'd be no lazy weekend afternoons, no snacks in the kitchen, no momentary appearances of the man Shawn would grow up to be. "Sure." She took a seat, the cookie, and made a motion as if to knock the two ends of their cookies together. "Cheers."

"Cheers!"

"Now are you going to tell me why you're prancing around like a little man?"

"Oh, see, I have this idea that the older I get the more I'm going to have to remember things. I mean—there's _so much _they make us remember at school. And Dad's always _testing _my memory, too! It's a lot of responsibility, trying to remember everything that everyone throws at me! So, I figure if I act like I'm responsible enough to handle it, then I'll _be _responsible enough to handle it." Feeling that he'd exposed too many of his feelings, and beginning to feel humiliated, Shawn brought the topic a slight curve. "I told this to Gus."

This had stopped being comical. "What'd Gus say?"

"He thought I was nuts. But his dad isn't trying to turn him into a walking, talking human eyeball, is he?"

"Probably not. Why do you think your father's doing this?"

"Because he wants me to be a cop."

"And you don't want to be a cop?"

He glared at her, bored-like. They'd talked about this _way _too many times to bear another repetition. "No. I want to work at the Noodle Factory. I told you this. You get to make cool piles of noodles, _and _you get to eat as many as you want."

"Life is more than making noodles."

"Life isn't much more than that, though, making noodles and eating them."

Shawn had her there. "Sure you don't want to be a cop? You'd be good at it. You might like it."

"Ugh, no. No, I wouldn't like it. For one thing, that _uniform_. And it's made of polyester. Do you _know _what happens to polyester when it comes in contact with fire? It _melts_. It _melts _on your _skin_. It _sticks _to your skin. That is so gross."

Maddie scooped crumbs off the vinyl tablecloth. "Did your father tell you that?"

"Dad? No. I read about it," he said, as if saying he didn't know how else he gathered information. "Besides, he's been wearing suits since he was promoted, so I don't think that he thinks about it all that much anymore. I don't like the uniforms."

"I gathered."

"But I will say that they tend to cling correctly to the right curves of the right kind of people."

"Shawn!" But Maddie was unable to hold in a loud laugh. Shawn was pleased. He'd hardly heard her laugh like that in months, at least not when he was around and certainly not because he'd said something that'd humored her. When she'd recovered, she attempted reprimand. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Well, your dad might be teaching you how to observe everything in a room and how to solve this or that case, but he's not doing a good job teaching you when to keep your thoughts to yourself."

"That's true. I won't deny it. Mom, is this _ever _going to stop? When's he going to give up?"

"Your father, give up? Oh, no, Goose, he doesn't give up."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

The slapping of feet on the front porch was soon followed by the smacking of the screen door. "Shawn?"

"In here, Gus!"

Maddie continued to have a difficult time shooing Shawn's misappropriate observation out of her mind, even as she handed a sweaty Gus a glass of ice water. She'd have to talk to Henry about that—the things he was teaching Shawn. Though beginning to feel her influence on Henry was waning, and still touched that Henry bothered to help rear Shawn after all the horror stories she'd heard from clients through the years—she had to try. She knew what Shawn was like when he grew bored. It'd happened to him in school recently, and she was afraid of what happened when Shawn's restlessness became more domestic. It wouldn't be pretty, and Henry wouldn't like it.

"There's a whole mess of cops down at the beach," Gus was announcing while Maddie thought and Shawn blew bubbles into his glass of milk. Shawn, too enraptured to continue, made a disgusted face at Gus.

"You actually came in here, said hi to us, and had a glass of water before you told us there were cops at the beach?"

"What? I was thirsty. It's hot out. And the humidity's low. I need to keep hydrated."

Shawn had no idea what to say to this. "Mom, can we—"

"Yes, but be careful. Stay out of the way. And take this to your father." She drew a paper sack out of the refrigerator. Left in Shawn's safe-keeping was taking a chance, but it was better than no chance at all. "He forgot to take it this morning."

"Ew, totally bogus tuna stink!"

"He likes tuna on Saturdays. Be home by five. I want to help you work on your science project while we're fixing dinner." If Henry was going to teach Shawn how to solve crimes, she was going to teach him how to boil pasta. It'd give him a head start at the Noodle Factory if nothing else.

"Will do!"

"Thanks for the water, Mrs. S! Bye!"

Gus left the emptied glass on the table, then darted after Shawn to the front lawn. Shawn's bike was there, with a basket on the front to cart interesting goodies around, sometimes found while they beach-combed, sometimes found in the schoolyard or scary alleys they dared one another to ride through—alone. Shawn asked him where the cops were, and Gus, already pedaling, said it was two blocks "that way."

Shawn had no trouble seeing it. Not far from the pier, and in front of some new beach-front construction of office buildings that always made Shawn roll his eyes. He hated it when land developers got what they wanted and ruined the nice view of his part of Santa Barbara. Pedestrians, seemingly hundreds of them at two o' clock on a Saturday, had flocked to the system of rails that surrounded the beach, and many more layers of surfers, roller skaters, cyclists, dog walkers, troubadours and what-have-you were crammed onto the beach, widened by low tide. Unafraid to leave their bikes unattended, they flopped them onto the ground next to the new construction. For good measure, Shawn kicked the edge of the building as he walked by.

"What'd you do that for?" Gus asked, wishing Shawn would hurry up. He didn't want to miss everything!

"I hate this building. It's stupid. I mean, if they're going to _build _something, why can't it be something cool like a Chuck E Cheese or a Baskin Robbins?"

"Yeah, that would be cool. What is it?" Gus took in as much of the buildings frame as he could. It was made of solid timber boards and not much else just yet.

"A dumb old office. A real estate agent or something. I want a Baskin Robbins!"

"There's one on the other side of town."

"Yeah, but it'd be cool to have one we could ride our bikes to. One of these days, I'm going to be rich enough to buy that building and burn it down. Hey, look, Dad's car! He's definitely here. And I have his stinky tuna sandwich." Shawn held up the sack for emphasis. It still stank, even when they were a stone's throw from the ocean. The ocean bored him, too. Like the sand, like the Santa Ynez mountains—it was just kind of there, year in and year out, season in and season out, always the same. Boring. He wanted to see something different for once. Maybe go back to his crazy uncle's place and shoot cans off the rail fence by the barn…

Through a series of "Excuse Us" and "Pardon Us" and such mumbles and pleas to get the spectators out of their way, Shawn and Gus swerved their way through tan bodies and fat bodies, long legs and short legs, stepped over small dogs and veered around large ones—who were more interested in the smelly sack than Shawn and Gus. Finally, they broke through the barrier and stood on sand, with a fine view of the teeming officers of the SBPD. They swarmed around like brown and blue bees. Shawn blinked, wrestling with sweat and hair clinging to his eyelashes. When he winced to deaden some of the July sunshine, he spotted his father standing with two other plain-clothes detectives and three uniforms. An important man took a long, final look at the ocean before meandering his way back to the men.

"Chief Wilkins," Gus said, spotting exactly who Shawn did. "Must be something big."

"I see Officer Grayson not far. I'll talk to her. She likes me."

"I'll wait here."

"Coward," Shawn teased, smiling.

He knew Gus liked Officer Grayson. She was pretty, had some serious curves that her uniform showed off, and one of the specimens that'd popped into his head when Shawn had mentioned it to his mom. Shawn left Gus to stew in his daydreams, wondering if his lack of fear facing the opposite sex meant there was some deformity in him. But, just standing at the threshold of puberty, he had a long way to go before everything was settled. Still, the sight of buxom Grayson was intriguing, about as intriguing as the well-sculpted derriere his eyes glazed across—and looked away with striking alacrity when realizing it was the bum of Officer Ortiz—a dude. Oh well, maybe he'd grow up to have a butt as muscled as that someday. But probably not, if genetics offered any foreshadowing.

He got the gist of the ordeal from Grayson. Fascinating it was, so much so that Shawn's hair along his forearms stood up, his skin popped out in gooseflesh. When he returned to Gus, the tale was at the tip of his tongue. But he didn't want everyone around them to overhear. He pulled Gus under the yellow tape, having the blessing of Grayson and another nearby officer. Special privileges! It was nice to be appreciated.

Shawn licked his lips before talking. "They found a body in a trunk. The trunk washed up on shore."

"A trunk?"

"Yeah, you know, like one of those humped-back sea chests we saw at your grandma's house that one time."

"Oh—oh that kind of trunk. Well, whose body was it?"

"They dunno. It was all gross inside, Grayson said. The trunk's old. Grayson said that the chief said that my dad said that he was surprised that the trunk had held together that long. They think it must've been dumped way out somewhere."

"That's crazy."

"I know. Creepy, too. Imagine being killed, murdered even—then thrown into a trunk and then thrown into the ocean. Sounds like something the Goonies would investigate. Wanna play? We can get Dennis and Morgan and—"

"Well, all right, but I'm not playing Chunk again."

"I make no promises."

"Aw, man! Come on, Shawn!"

"Let me just run this gross sandwich over to Dad. I think he's part porpoise, but I'm not really ready to align him with such a friendly species just yet. Be right back!"

As soon as Henry spotted his son parading across the sand, devil-may-care attitude wholly on display, Henry's systolic blood pressure rose by twelve points. "Shawn, what are you doing here?"

"I brought you your lunch. Or dinner. Your stinky fish thing Mom said you had to have."

Henry snatched at the sack. "So that's where it went!"

"It didn't _go _anywhere. It was always in the fridge. Grayson told me about the trunk." He could barely see the ancient thing, black and brown and cedar through the legs and around the bodies of five men. "Think it's old?"

"Yeah, and the body's old, too. And I'm going to have a long talk with Grayson."

"Don't do that. She's a good officer." And she's hot! But, wisely, he neglected to say that part out loud, even if his dad had agreed with him. Most warm-blooded men _would _agree with him. They'd probably agree with him, objectionably, about Officer Ortiz's chiseled and manly bum, too, and that made Shawn feel that his earlier and accidental ogling was normal. "You know she wouldn't do anything that'd hurt me. But Gus and I are going to go meet Dennis and Morgan and see if we can't solve this case on our own, Goonies style."

"Don't go out by the rocks again, Goonies or no Goonies. And be home by five. You need to finish your science project before Monday."

"Mom's given me this rigamarole already. Five. Science project. Got any more info about the trunk or the body in the trunk?"

"No," Henry said flatly, intensely. Then, he figured, why not? It wasn't likely they'd ever figure out where the dead person inside the trunk came from. Why not let Shawn have his chance? "Well, the trunk is old. Grayson's dad's an antique dealer. And Grayson thinks it might be from the early 1900's. The body's not in good shape. Mostly bones at this point. There's some liquid inside."

"That's from decomposition, right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Stop the presses, Dad! I'm not an idiot! And the trunk's been sealed. It was dunked in wax or something. I can see it from here."

Henry scooped his palm over the top of Shawn's hair, a gesture of pride. "Just a paraffin wax, maybe. I don't know. You run along now and play. We'll deal with this. And don't make Gus be Chunk again!"

For a second, Henry watched Shawn's detachment from the beach with a pang of remorse and a twist of envy. He shouldn't have been so hard on Shawn through the years. He should've let him be what he was: a kid. The games had begun as a fun pastime, but somehow they'd become more like lessons than playful diversions. He sighed, lowering aviators back on his nose, and returned to the dead body in the old steamer trunk.

-x-

_1994_…

Despite embarrassments—and one really big ado four months ago—Shawn Spencer still considered the SBPD headquarters a home away from home. He could walk through it with his eyes closed. He could walk through it with his nose in the air and half his face turned from the oceanic blight he carried in a paper sack.

"Make way! Coming through! Keep the aisle clear! Smelly fish sandwich! Out of the way! That means you, Dobson!"

Shawn cooled, demeanor shifting, catching sight of the tall brunette babe Dobson was with.

"Hellooo, Dobson's friend."

He was glad neither Dobson nor Dobson's "friend" heard him, and everyone, including the chief, gave him a three-foot circumference. They knew it was Stinky Sack Saturday.

At last, Shawn drew to a halt, complete with braking sound effects, at his old man's desk. With grandness befitting his persona, Shawn set the sack down—right in the middle of Henry's stack of paperwork. Shawn hunted for every flicker of information he could, from the file folder to the people in the room, to the amount of coffee left in the pot on the snack counter. He noticed that the clock on the wall was two minutes fast, who was at his desk and who wasn't, what color of tie the chief wore and what color eyes Dobson's paramour had. Just in case his dad asked him something, although that had faded into the bygone days of glory the last six months.

"Stinky Sack Saturday," Shawn said, "as promised. You forgot your lunch again." Dad had forgotten a lot of things since Mom left. He couldn't think about that now, not the mismatched socks or laundry left in the washer for days until it stank. Until it smelled like tuna.

Henry aimed a glare at Shawn over his reading glasses. "You brought me my lunch?"

"As you see." Shawn refused to sweat or break his role. He was the suave and carefree character, free to do whatever the hell he wanted—just as soon as he found a way out of Santa Barbara.

"And that's the only reason for your visit?"

"I thought it was a pretty good reason, actually. You don't think so? Well, I can take the tuna fish sandwich away." Shawn's hand aimed for the sack, soon swiped away by Henry.

"I want the sandwich. I just thought—" Henry paused, reflecting. He couldn't tell if Shawn knew and that's why he'd brought the sandwich, or if Shawn hadn't heard and had brought the sandwich out of the goodness of his heart—and perhaps a chance to get some exercise and sunshine.

"Thought what?" Shawn waited, and, fed up with waiting, uncomfortable the longer his dad continued to scrutinize him, he gestured, palms open and jerking to the floor. "What, Dad, what? Thought what?"

"That you might've heard."

"_Aaaa_-bout—about what?" Shawn's lungs rapidly filled with cold police department air, and his carefree slack tightened as if ready for a hangman's noose. "Is it Mom? Is she—"

"Oh, no, nothing like that." Jeez, Shawn really hadn't heard. Sometimes the daisy-chain of weirdoes that outsourced department information managed to miss Shawn. Sometimes not. "I didn't mean to freak you out. Your mom's fine. She—"

The desk phone rang.

"I'd better take this, Shawn. I'm waiting for the Assistant DA to get back to me. Hang out for a second, though. I want to talk to you."

"Sure. I'll go down and get my digits inked. Been a while since I've done that. I want to see if any of those chemical burns freshman year changed my prints."

Not waiting for Henry's nod of approval, Shawn returned to the front of the building, just to turn left at the doors and descend into the abysmal lower-levels. It had a smell all its own, partly the soft heat of electronics, partly like the massive amounts of paper and cardboard in storage there, and partly something that carried the aroma of perpetually damp mop.

The booking officer on duty was none other than Officer Beanpole. At least, that's what Henry always called him, what Shawn called him in his mind. Lassiter cemented the belief that everyone should carry a descriptive name, not just a familial one. He was gangly, legs and arms nearly the same length, his neck thin and graceful like a swan's, and Shawn could've written odes to Lassiter's fingers. There was a disturbingly hygienic quality about Lassiter. Regardless of what he did, he was utterly spotless afterwards. He was one of the most difficult people to humanize; Shawn couldn't imagine him eating dinner let along screwing his wife, or whoever it was that'd put a ring on an important finger.

"Hi," Shawn said, laying his forearms on the high counter.

"What do you want?" Lassiter didn't look up from adding signatures to a fresh stack of fingerprints. More gang members. Would it never end? But he did glance at the punk kid in front of him, seventeen, eighteen, coarse brown hair bleached in strands by summer sun, though his face remained oddly free of sun's touch. "Oh, Henry Spencer's offspring. Did you get arrested again? Need your fingerprints taken?"

"I came for a double-fudge brownie sundae. Am I in the wrong place?" He'd do anything to get under Officer Beanpole's skin—and stay there. It didn't take much. Lassiter, regardless of what he might think, wore a whole lot of his heart on his navy blue polyester sleeve. Better that Lassiter was in that uniform than Shawn Spencer.

But Lassiter looked into the middle-distance at the mention of food. "God, that sounds so good right now." He came to his senses, the one that didn't have to do with hunger. "I missed lunch. What are you doing down here?"

"Waiting for my dad to get off the phone. He wants to talk to me about something,'n I dunno…"

Lassiter had one guess as to what that was, only he thought it best not to spill it. Detective Spencer wouldn't like it one bit, and he was an important person in the precinct. Unfortunately, Carlton couldn't decide if he _liked _Detective Spencer. He faced the same dilemma with Detective Spencer's kid. Thank goodness he didn't have to work with _two _Spencers. One was more than enough.

Shawn scared him to death with a single, ambiguous question.

"Is it true what they say about you?"

Playing it aloof, Lassiter responded with the first nonchalant sentence that came to mind. "Any number of things you hear about me _might _be true."

Shawn debated on whether or not he should go on with it, by asking if _all _those things were true. It was intriguing, nonetheless, having Lassiter admit that people talked about him. There was always scuttlebutt about the rookies and the almost-rookies. "Is it true that you're in a master's program while you're working full-time at this firetrap?"

"Oh, that."

Shawn wondered what other caverns of secrets and rumors it _could've _been. "Seriously, you've never been more appealing to me than you are right now." He was glad Beanpole ignored the comment—or flirtation—or, at this point, Shawn wasn't even sure. Maybe just a statement of stalwart curiosity. "So it is true?"

Lassiter took a second before nodding. "True. All of it. And, on top of that, being married is a whole lot of fun."

"Double-fudge brownie sundaes every night kind of fun, or mostly that she washes the dishes while you do your homework?"

"More of the latter than the former."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"What do you _want, _Spencer? There are umpteen ways you can waste time in this building, and why are you wasting it down here?"

Shawn cut to another piece of gossip. "Who's the dude with Dobson? No, not fair, you can't look away and say you don't know when I know you know who I'm talking about!"

Lassiter reached his final sheet, sorry that he wouldn't have anything to excuse him from Shawn Spencer's presumptuous yet oddly friendly and conspiratorial presence. "His name's Mike. He's been here a few times. They go to lunch together. That's all I know."

"Sushi bar, or Dairy Queen?"

"I don't know! Sometimes they eat at the sushi bar, I guess, and sometimes they go to that weird place down by the quays—the Vine-something. I can't remember its name."

Shawn supposed Lassiter meant the Tanglevine Club, but didn't feel like prancing this knowledge. It was no fun playing brain games with Officer Beanpole. It wasn't as though extra knowledge of silly things would win him points, not like it did with Dad or Gus. "Sushi bar. Just as I suspected. They are lovers in the night! And sometimes daylight, too!"

"Eh—" Lassiter eked the surprised interjection from stunned vocal chords. "Will you go bother someone else for a change?"

Shawn was on the verge of retreat when his name was hollered from the stairwell. "Speak of the devil," he said to Lassiter, finding it was Dobson who came toward him.

"Your dad went to meet Mr. Grimes. He told me to tell you that he'd tell you what he wanted to tell you later." Dobson's eyes roamed about, deep in thought. He was a sweet-faced twenty-something with cedar hair that he wore too long over his ears. Shawn had discovered months ago that Dobson had trouble with his weight, judged by the wear around the holes of his belt. No wonder he and Mike were eating more sushi than Dairy Queen.

Shawn wasn't disappointed that his dad had gone off and left him—for the Assistant District Attorney. "That figures. Thanks, Dobs. Hey, wait." He called Dobson back. "Don't suppose you know what he wanted to tell me?"

Dobson shook his head, shrugged, glanced furtively at Lassiter before juggling farewells with Henry Spencer's only child.

Shawn combed a hand through his hair, then left his elbow again on Officer Beanpole's booking counter. True to his nature, Lassiter had out the bottle of blue cleaner and a paper towel, wiping off the surface to keep it dust-free. "It's amazing how you can't tell people are gay just by looking at them."

Lassiter aimed a stream of blue cleaning fluid at Spencer's fingers. Shawn jerked them away. "It's amazing that you can tell who's a smart-aleck punk just by looking at them."

"I was just making an observation. I have way more gay friends than I do, uh, not-gay friends."

"I don't doubt it," Lassiter uttered it as if it was a death sentence. "Now that you know your dad's abandoned you, either get your sad little-boy tears out now, Spencer, or get out of my sight." Lassiter helped Shawn make the right decision, grabbing him by the collar of his Oingo-Boingo t-shirt and urging him closer to the staircase. Shawn whacked at the inside of his arm, able to release himself. The next thing Lassiter knew, he was on the floor, blinking rapidly at the lights in the ceiling. "What the hell did you just do?"

"Magic skills," Shawn said, helping Beanpole to his feet. He brushed off the shoulders, the chest—and let his hands fall, starting to enjoy it a bit. "Sorry. Do you know what my dad wanted to tell me?"

It would be fun to tell Shawn. Fun, in the sense of the word that was absolute purity to Lassiter. He put his face close to Shawn's, grabbing fistfuls of t-shirt and leather-string necklaces. "If I tell you—you can't tell him I told you. Got that? It would mean my ass. But I do so want to see the look on your face." One hand came up, lightly smacking Spencer's cheek. "Promise not to tell your dad you heard it from me?"

"Jeez, what are we, in the fifth grade or something?"

Lassiter tightened his grip. "Promise?"

"Yeah, all right—dammit, I promise!" Because, by now, Shawn had to know what it was. But Lassiter hadn't moved yet, was still calculating his trustworthiness. "Unless you're going to slip me some tongue or spill some secrets, Beanpole, let me go."

Blue eyes all winced together, Lassiter tossed Spencer from him. "Come on." He swung a set of keys free from a uniform pocket, and paraded with a sultry, easy walk down the dark corridor. Shawn grew excited when Lassiter unlocked the door to the Unknown Room. For years, Shawn had entertained the idea that the Unknown Room housed the grandest amount of donuts, perhaps cooked fresh by an on-site baker, with coffee and snacks, strippers on Friday nights (this was a thought he had when slightly older), and huge televisions always tuned into ESPN.

He followed behind Beanpole and into the Unknown Room. "This is one of the greatest moment's of my life. I'm happy to share it with you, Carl."

"That's Carl_ton_, Spencer. Lassiter to you."

"_Officer_ Lassiter if I'm feeling aristocratic," Shawn conceded, gesticulating grandly, bowing just as grandly, before he examined the surroundings. He wasn't far off from _part _of his imaginings. There was no stripper's pole, not even a fireman's pole, and there was no baker on duty. But there was a television, and ESPN was on, and there was one carton of donuts left.

"Sweet, the Breezeway Bakery!" Shawn pounced on the sky-blue carton known to all in Santa Barbara as a symbol of quality and succulence. "Can I eat this?"

"Over here." Lassiter pinched Shawn's sleeve and hauled him to another door. After trying a couple of keys, Lassiter found the right one. The door swung out rather than in, an indicator that the room ahead was tiny.

It was about the size of the instant photo booth at the mall. It was a closet. It was a bathroom stall. Shawn couldn't tell what it was, but when Lassiter flicked on the bare bulb suspended from the ceiling by a risky-looking wire, he knew what he was looking at.

"There's _two _of them?"

Lassiter stood next to Shawn, now able to soak in the expression of surprise and intrigue. That's what he wanted to see: the real Shawn Spencer. "There's two of them."

Shawn glared at the steamer trunks, twins of one another right down to the corrosion of the brass handles and the presence of paraffin wax. "Two of them," he repeated, contemplating them while stroking his chin. "When'd you find the second one?"

"Around three this morning. It was found out by Goleta. Unfortunately, it's not really ours: the sheriff's department has custody of it." Lassiter strolled around the table that held the two steamer trunks. "They don't have the room for it, and we _barely _have room for it, as you can see. We're going to keep it as long as we can."

"Was there a body inside?"

"Yeah. Too decomposed to do anything with it. Mostly goop when it was opened. Same as the other. _Buu-uuut_."

"Oh, I like that but. Hit me with it, Beanpole. But what?"

Lassiter's eyes shimmered, and his whole soul seemed to glow two times its regular size. "We found this!"

He shone his issued flashlight on a specific portion of Chest Number Two. Shawn raced to examine the spot. The wax had an incurvation akin to the shape of a human fingertip. The wax was compressed in a striped pattern, hardly discernible to Shawn's eyes. He shot up, matching excited gazes with Lassiter.

"A fingerprint!" they said at the same time, each whispering it with quelled passion.

Shawn was thrilled—and curious—and wondering why his dad wanted to tell him about the second trunk.

"But the first trunk never led anywhere. No one ever found out the deceased's identity."

"DNA evidence is going to change all of that, once the results come back in. Once they _do _come back in, we'll be able to know, at the very least, if it's male or female. That's more than we knew before."

"Yeah, I'll probably be old and gray when those results finally get here. Well," Shawn folded his arms over his middle, finding the room chilly and his enthusiasm for this ancient mystery not enough to keep him warm, "this is interesting, but I'd better go. If anyone found me in here—"

"Good point." Lassiter escorted Spencer from the Unknown Closet in the Unknown Room to the Unknown Room.

"We're under the video room upstairs, aren't we?" Shawn, head back to look at the ceiling, touched it with a flattened palm. "Just trying to get the layout of this place. I always knew there had to be another room down here."

"Take that donut, if you want it."

Shawn wasn't going to pass up a chance to snack on a Breezeway Bakery lusciousness. "Thanks." He binned the empty box and put most of the donut in his mouth. "Thanks for showing me the chests, too, even if it would've cost you some office cred."

"Not likely, not if your dad wanted you to know about them. He thought of you when we were ogling the two chests earlier."

"He did?" Shawn was so enthralled that his chewing slowed, and he forgot to watch Lassiter's magic fingers turn the key to lock the Unknown Room. "What'd he say?"

"Just that—you know—you were so excited about that first chest when it was found, he thought you'd like to know about the second one."

"That's true. I can't wait to tell him that I think there's probably a third one." Shawn finished off the donut—so good that his tastebuds were practically in orgasm—but Lassiter gave him a fixed eye. "What, and you think there isn't? Come on, things like that always come in threes. Like hexes. And hurricanes in Hartford and Hereford and Hampshire. Always in threes!"

This wasn't something Lassiter was ready to believe, thrilling as it _could _be. "I'm just telling you what your dad said. It's up to you to tell him anything else."

Beanpole was right about that. Shawn, momentarily weakened by the thought that his dad had considered him, even out loud and in front of his coworkers, even Lassiter, decided it was tit-for-tat to repeat what he'd heard his father say about Lassiter. "Dad thinks highly of you, too—or, you know, as highly as he ever thinks of anyone. He admires you. Thinks it takes a lot for a man to work full-time _and _be married _and _still go to school."

Returned to his bottle of blue cleaner, Lassiter found freedom from embarrassment in the cleanliness of the countertop. His cheeks burned, and the back of his neck throbbed. "It is hard," he said quietly, "and some days are better than others."

"What's are you in graduate school for, anyway?"

"Criminology."

"They have degrees in that now?"

"You'd be amazed."

"What's your minor?"

"A couple of things."

"How can you have more than one minor?"

"Easily. I like to learn."

"Well, so do I, but I'd rather be out in the real world gaining my knowledge and not having my brain sucked out by years and years of very expensive college. No, seriously, what's one of your minors?"

"History."

"What's the other?"

"I'm not telling."

"Is it something sissy, like poetry?"

"I'm not telling. And maybe it's time for you to go out in the real world, Spencer, and get some of that knowledge you're so hungry for. Don't let me stop you."

Squeeze, squeeze. Wipe, wipe.

Squeeze, squeeze. Wipe, wipe.

Wheeze, wheeze. Sigh, sigh.

Wheeze, wheeze. Sigh, sigh.

-x-

_2014_…

Shawn flung up his eyelids, aware of the world around him, the celery-hued walls of his and Lassie's bedroom, the mixture of sunlight and daylight filling it up. The noises that'd woken him from a combination of memories and dreams was nothing more than Lassie's wheezy early-morning breathing. A phenomenon that only occurred between the hours of five-thirty and seven, July through September. It was late August, the heart of Wheezy Lassie time.

Beneath the sheets, Shawn shimmied closer to Carlton. In a moment, Wheezy Lassie ceased and regular old Carlton found Shawn Spencer's head resting on his chest. Briefly, Carlton forgot what day it was—just another August day. But it raced to the forefront of his mind, past the fading images of weird dreams that, if he remembered, he'd tell to Shawn later and they'd laugh over them. He toyed with the tips of Shawn's out-of-control hair, always pleased to find a streak of gray among the thick heap of desert golds and earthy tones.

"Hi," he croaked the greeting. "Happy anniversary."

Shawn's mind worked a different way; he couldn't even repeat the phrase. He had that all figured out, anyway, saving it for later. From the top of his head, he grabbed Lassie's hand and cupped it around his. "Do you remember, a really long time ago, those steamer trunks that the SBPD and Sheriff's department confiscated? They had gross, watery dead bodies in them and were covered in wax."

Lassiter gaped at him, flicked at Shawn's bottom lip. "Honestly, how do you remember that? I mean, yeah, it was interesting and all. Part anthropology, part archeology, part forensics and a murder investigation—but how do you _remember _that?"

"I remember you showing me the second chest hours after it'd gotten to the precinct. Remember?"

"Vaguely. I remember a punk-ass kid who wouldn't leave me alone. Heh," Carlton chuckled, swabbed sleep from his eyes, "you were the first one who told me Dobson was gay."

"Who _told _you, but I think you had suspicions of your own. I was just the first loud-mouthed punk-ass that said everything that no one else would. And how _hot _was Officer Grayson? Seriously—that woman was smoking! The cause of all my wet dreams. Well, most of them. But-but-but, you remember those trunks, don't you, Lass?"

"Of course I do. Why were you thinking about them, now? What brought this on?"

Shawn didn't answer. He had a way of sidestepping questions he didn't want to answer, a lot more in the last eight months, too. "What happened to those things? And whatever happened to the case?"

"It got stuck in a box with all the other cases we couldn't solve. I came across it once. Let me see, when was that? More than a year ago now. I was going to tell you about it, but—somehow it escaped my mind." He pressed Shawn's hand to him, still searching for a reason why Shawn would think about those chests. Being no idiot himself, Carlton divined a way, an almost plausible explanation, for Shawn's mind to go back to those old and ugly trunks. "Thinking about that case again? The Hayworth case?"

He'd pushed too far, knowing it when Shawn grumbled, "I don't want to talk about it," and kicked himself free of sheets. Anything that reminded Shawn of old Santa Barbara, he didn't want to talk about, didn't want to deal with, didn't want to think about. It'd been funny, and, for a while, Carlton, Gus and Juliet had supposed Shawn had meant it to be funny, until it wasn't anymore and Shawn clammed up and stormed off whenever one of them brought it up. They'd stopped bringing it up. Carlton's loose morning tongue was the first reference that case had had in more than five months.

Shawn slithered into underwear and the first pair of jeans he found on the floor. Actually, now that he was home so often, he was proud to see they were the _only _pair of jeans on the floor. He gave Lassie a stern poke in the chest, harder than usual to be sure his hairy man-shield didn't protect him.

"You screwed up. Don't talk about it again. Now," he nicked a sour-tasting kiss, "I will make you breakfast—a small one—since I have plans for us this afternoon. And I'm not telling, so there's no point in asking."

"You? You planned something?"

"Of course." Shawn stopped in the doorway, perfectly framed by it. "How many of my own anniversaries do you think I've had to celebrate in my life? Try, like, zero—or maybe zero-and-a-half. Well, not many. I mean—prior to you. So—wait—two? Is that all? Huh! I need to pee and I need tea. In that order."

He zipped down the hall, out of sight, but sung a Monkees song at the top of his lungs. Carlton, lying in bed for another minute, heard the comforting sounds of kitchen cupboards banging, and, as he stepped into the bathroom the aroma of coffee filled his nostrils. He was just a smidgen afraid of Shawn's plans—but that trace of fear was far better for his heartstrings than nothing at all. He'd take it.

But what had made Shawn think of those damn old sea chests? Today, of all days? Carlton shivered as he stepped beneath the shower stream. He'd have to chalk it up as another crazy bit of proof that Shawn Spencer really was psychic.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Gus had a bad feeling about this. It was cute and all, but that didn't stop his Psych sense from malicious tingles.

"I've got a _bad _feeling about this, Shawn. Really bad." His fingers, as if holding their own in the show of displeasure, quivered a little as he tightened one of the last strings under Shawn's left forearm.

"What could be bad about it?" came from the hollow of—of whatever the heck Shawn had made this costume out of. "It's high noon. I'm not missing a _thing_, because I can't fit another morsel in here. I can hardly cram all of me in this thing. I know Lassie's inside, and I know my dad _isn't_. Total bonus. I've got everything squared away with that super-duper wife of yours. She's been way more supportive than you."

"I won't deny that Jules is a productive amoretto. She thinks you and Lassiter are—"

"Are?" prompted Shawn. "Go on. Say it."

Gus made a face, spat a mild hiss, made another face. He returned to his labor. "She thinks you're sweet together."

"See! That wasn't so bad! And I know you think we're not."

"I'm refraining from any opinion." Although it was nice to have a happier Lassie and a happier Shawn around. "But I don't know that I agree with this plan of yours. Are you sure about this?"

Shawn pretended he heard no antagonism at all in his best friend's very even tone. "Very sure. And I'm recording _My Little Pony_, so I know I won't miss anything pop-culturally. Maybe I'll have time to watch it later. I'm still catching up on episodes. I wonder, will we even have the time? So much going on today."

"Will you hold still? I'm not done yet. Did you—uh—"

"You really need to stop inserting all these hesitations into your speeches. My self-confidence often depends on _your _self-confidence. Did I what? Pee before I got in here? You bet I did. Is the status of my bladder troubling you?"

"Not even slightly," Gus answered, continuing to fumble with knots. "Did you talk to Lassie about—about you know what? And I know you know what I'm talking about."

Letting out a brief exhalation prepared Shawn for replying. He wanted to be succinct and aloof, just not too succinct and aloof. "Not yet. Not—not in so many words. I thought I would this morning but I lost my nerve. I don't know, Gus—maybe it's not a good time for us to talk about it."

"Are you ever going to be any more ready?"

Shawn's lips and eyelids clenched. Even if he wasn't really thinking, it'd look like he was thinking. He saw Gus's point, anyway. "Yeah, all right, you win. I'll take another stab at it later, maybe after I have some wine. A lot of wine. A _lot_."

"Don't you have to work later?"

"So, okay, one little bitty sip of wine."

"Make the effort to tell him something. You'll feel better if you do."

Shawn looked around, as much as he could acquire mobility in that awkward contraption. The sky over the core of downtown Santa Barbara was bright blue, a high contrast to the traditional architecture of the station, with its terra cotta roof and off-white stucco exterior. They were on the southern end of the building, away from the front door. Enough officers and civilians were coming and going out the side door that Shawn and Gus put up with a few gawks. Most, though, didn't notice them, too busy staring at their cell phones. Shawn's mind did what it was good at: meandering out loud.

"You know what I love most about _My Little Pony_, Gus?"

"The mostly pastel color palette? The simple, thematic yet catchy songs?"

"Yes, and yes, but that's not how I was going to answer. I like that there's not one cell phone in all of Equestria. No cell phones, computers—"

"But they have magical Alicorns."

"True fact, and in my opinion, Equestria is the better for it. Ponies don't have the opposable thumbs that are really required for everyday cell phone use."

Gus played along, he and Juliet having decided that Shawn's "MLP" fascination was just a phase he was going through. At least, they kind of hoped it was. Shawn had come to rely on the show as a means of transforming his negative feelings into something cheerier. Maddie had tried explaining it to Gus and Juliet recently, in a response to a concerned and startling email they'd sent her. "No cell phones. Sure, Shawn, I'm sure that's the reason you like _My Little Pony_. Whatever it is," he paused, remembering that Maddie had suggested they exhibit a better emotional interest in Shawn's overall health, "I'm glad you won't miss anything important from Equestria. Well, I think I got all of them." He looked at Shawn in his disguise, and couldn't help but marvel—and have his stomach slosh around again. "No matter how much I beg, you're not going to reconsider, are you?"

"Of course I am _not_. I've been planning this for months. I have backers—investors! I'd hate to disappoint _them_. And Carlton. Juliet, too. Thanks for your work, young Squire Guster." Shawn laid a heavy hand on Gus's shoulder, immediately lifting it when Gus winced in pain. "Yeah, maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"Maybe not."

"Too late now! Into the fury—!" he gestured, indicating the station's front entrance, "I ride on my trusty steed!"

Which Shawn had had ample trouble figuring out. It was a good thing he, Gus, Dobson, McNab and Juliet had gone through a dry run a couple of weeks ago.

And, honestly, the amazing exhilaration that surged through Shawn as he entered the building and flew up the stairs was not something he wanted to miss. It was the biggest thrill he'd had in months! To see the astonishment on everyone's faces! Oh, he'd arrived! He'd arrived in style! If he'd walked into the station completely naked on a horse, like Lady Godiva, he doubt the gawkers would've been able to gawk a smidgen more.

Chief Vick, hearing the unusual noise—and then the silence that followed—sauntered from her office with a terrible pressure in her throat. The sight of someone astride a horse was enough to take her breath away. A horse! In the station!

Unafraid of equines, Vick strode forward and cut through the line of pedestrians and officers that'd gathered around the spectacle. Looking behind the streaks of metal through the knight's helmet, Karen no longer knew whether she should laugh or reprimand. She never did know what to do when Shawn was up to one of his tricks.

"I think you've gone a little too far this time. At least have the decency to explain this to me. Quickly." She eyeballed the pony's tail for any sign of it lifting prior to its bowel release. Thankfully, the tail was limp, and the pony appeared less fearful and more intrigued. "Shawn, really, what is this? I should have you arrested!"

Shawn thanked Octavia for her fine behavior with a few pats at her lower neck. He needed a moment to get the Scottish brogue just right. "I've come to rescue and woo yonder detective—one Lassiter by name! I believe you know him, my Lady Provost! Be a good wench and fetch him from thither and bring him thus hither I am!"

Karen's reaction was a slight roll of the eyes and a visible reparation of her soul. Was that all? Well, she admired Shawn's ability to keep his romance with Lassiter fresh. Fresh as a fruit stand—practically fresher than an orchard. She heard McNab whispering to her.

"It's their anniversary. Two years," he said, nodding and smiling at her, as if they should all be a little proud of this. They all were a little proud of this, actually.

Karen reset herself. "Mr. Spencer—"

"Sir Spencer, if you please!" said the knight.

And what the heck was he wearing? It looked like cylinders of paperboard covered in aluminum foil and tied up with plain old cotton string. Though elaborate, it was also comical. The basinet, though—it was certainly real. The closer she looked, the more she noticed that portions of his ensemble were as real as the helmet, and the paperboard-aluminum was to make up for the missing pieces. Shawn was always good for an afternoon mind-boggle.

"Sir Spencer, then," she cast a quick glance around in the hopes of finding Carlton, "you need a _permit _to have this animal—"

"Oh, I've got that," he said in his normal, less Scottish voice. Pulled from an aluminum foil cannon, a sheet of paper. He watched the chief read it, watched her face fall as she realized its stinging legitimacy.

"Still, a horse—"

"She isn't a horse, my Lady Provost! She's a pony!" His gauntleted hands covered the pony's upright ears. "Only, she's kind of sensitive, so you might not want to mention that to her, I mean, not right to her pony face. Ah! Bless the very ground of this place! My love has come!"

For Shawn had just spotted Lassiter in the crowd. The horde split to form a row, allowing Lassiter to wander through. Shawn was beyond pleased to see the shock Carlton displayed. It was times like these that he was thankful for his photographic memory; he'd never forget it as long as he lived.

"There is my one and only true love! I've come to rescue you from a day's worth of slave labor, oh lord worthy of my praises, keeper of my heart, herald of my soul!"

Carlton could feel his face reddening. "Shawn," he growled cautiously. "I have … work to do."

"Nay! Thine hath slave labor, my love! And I've arrived in time to slash thy pinions and ride with ye to far, far freedom—where we will drink mead and picnic on the finest cuisine!"

Carlton, agog, could say nothing. He could literally think of _nothing to say_. Was this really Shawn? Was Shawn really on a pony? In that outfit? In the police department? This was what Shawn had planned? His head was spinning. This is what Shawn had planned! He felt a very real tug at his elbow. Looking over, he saw O'Hara. Thank God. At least O'Hara tended to make sense.

"Chief," Juliet bobbed her head a little and cleared her throat, "I mean, Lady Provost, I've agreed to take the majority of Detective Lassiter's work for the remainder of the afternoon. What I am unable to do, Detective Arlette has agreed to help me with."

Arlette, a strong-jawed, blue-eyed forty-something, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and looked both titillated and embarrassed to be part of this scheme. But what a scheme! He was glad to see Tyas not far off, video recorder in hand. Someone, at least, was preserving this. "I'll do what I can to help, Lady Provost, and for you, Sir Lassiter."

The next thing Lassiter knew, Shawn was holding out a hand for him to get on the pony. He could ride pillion for a while. They were used to that, thanks to Shawn's equine work at the country club and their extended vacations at Shawn's uncle's. Shawn, an adequate horseman, though not quite as good as Carlton, got the pony turned around and stopped again.

"Farewell, peasants! I thank the canaille for their labor to secure my love!" Shawn said, giving a wide, long wave of his arm to the gathered masses. "I thank each of you for your sup—or—ORT!"

Octavia had had enough, and decided to jump down the staircase and out the open doors as fast as her hooves could take her. Once in the free air, and standing right in the middle of the main thoroughfare, she gave an exorbitant and rude snort. Since no one stopped her, she sauntered over to a bit of green space, and began munching on succulent grass.

Lassiter was still having a difficult time kicking his brain into anything that wasn't "Shawn, pony, what the hell?" Any structure of linguistics outside of that was certainly beyond him. He wrung arms around Shawn's waist, fatter than usual thanks to the width of the cuirass. While it was pleasant being on a pony with Shawn, reminding them of their vacations the last couple of years, he wondered what the point of it was. Finally, some oil of the gods had dropped on his tongue, and he was able to speak again.

"Did you do that just to impress me?"

"Well, I am always trying to impress you."

"What happened to the brogue?"

"Dude, Lass, do you know how hard it is to do a Scottish accent? Do you know how much J.M. Barrie I had to read to keep that accent fresh in my mind? No, for real, I feel like a Scottish-made sponge that's then been soaked in usquebaugh that's _then_ been soaked in the dirty, stinky, sexy laundry of Gerard Butler, _then _carried around by Alan Cumming for a week. Besides," he paused to click at Octavia and bump her flanks with his heels, "it's not like you ever wanted me to be Scottish. Unless you have some Gerard Butler or Highland duke fantasy you've never told me about, because I know Alan Cumming's not your type."

"There is something about a kilt," Carlton teased. Octavia had taken to the sidewalk, and Shawn seemed to be leading her to the next cross street north. "Where are you taking me, anyway? And how'd you get Octavia out here? This was one elaborate scheme, Shawn."

"Months of work, one very iffy and almost terrifying evening of dress rehearsals—Gus will never, ever agree to shovel manure again, you can count on it—and, yeah, all that for five minutes in the police station. But _damn_ was it worth it! Did you see the looks on their faces? I hope Tyas caught the look on yours. I want you to see it. I've never seen you look so impressed and confused before. Except that one time when we were in bed."

It was one of Shawn's on-running gags. Shawn was the only person Carlton had ever met that had on-running gags with himself. Whenever Shawn couldn't think of a way to finish saying what he'd started to say, or if he'd said something uncomfortable, he'd end it with "Except for that one time when we were in bed." Often, it made everything better, both the phrasing and its saucy origin.

"As to where we're going," Shawn whipped his voice to Imperial Mode, "I cannot tell you that."

"You said something about a picnic."

"Oh," Shawn almost laughed at himself, "I did say that, didn't I? So only part of it's a secret. But we've got a few blocks yet." Shawn patted the hands lying over his belly. "Tell me about your day."

"Fairly banal, to my surprise."

"Full moon starts tomorrow," Shawn said. "You'll have way too much to do then. Although I think it's in your Rising house, so—so that'll be—challenging."

"I enjoyed today's reprieve, believe me. Just filed reports and mused over the details of some open cases."

Once upon a time, Shawn would've been happy to hear about these open cases, and would've encouraged Lassiter to tell him all the details, maybe even would've solved one or two. Those days were turning ancient, only fresh, in a sour kind of way, in Shawn's memory, in the regret he had over his last case, in the hopeful and maudlin stares of his friends, even his dad. That he'd failed to solve that case was just skimming the surface. It was what lurked below that Shawn avoided. He patted Lassie's hands a second time.

"You're the best detective they've got, so you'll get it. Don't stress over it, Pooch."

Carlton's shoulders drooped, but he kept in the sigh, afraid that Shawn would notice. He'd been trying to get Shawn involved in a case for the last five months. Nothing worked. Not even the case of a murdered nudist at a swingers party had enticed Shawn from the placidity of his new everyday life. Most of that revolved around freelance writing, articles on astrology and, a new thing for him, the development of intuition; he'd delved into writing for a gay culture site, including the occasional pop-culture piece, and he'd recently become their weekly horoscope author. The morphing from psychic detective to comedic and lighthearted writer wasn't so enormous for Shawn. Carlton continued to feel like something was _missing _in Shawn. The last month had brought them to a point that Carlton swore he'd never repeat: couple's counseling. But there was a roughness and hollowness in Shawn, so far irreparable by love and hope. Carlton let Shawn carry on his affair with his Macbook Pro, usually early in the morning or late at night, and hoped everything turned out the way it was supposed to. Shawn had found a painting by a local artist that he'd hung in the house, a mixed media canvas carrying words from the Desiderata, "No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."

No doubt it was. Carlton just wanted it to unfold a little faster.

Then again, maybe not. Two years had already swung right by, and he didn't know how he'd get through the first day let alone the first month, the first year—and he didn't have to wonder about it anymore.

"I hope it's not far," grumbled Carlton. "You're a lot nicer to hold when you're not made of metal."

"In a kilt?"

"Don't tease me. How'd you get Octavia?"

"I borrowed her. Don't worry," Shawn almost laughed, "she's a good pony, and Morrissey is picking her up when we reach our destination. I told you, I have this planned out down to the smallest detail."

"It's pretty amazing, you know." Carlton was tickled and amused that Shawn had done something so elaborate.

"Well, I'm a pretty amazing guy. I was going to change my middle name to Amazing, but I find it's much too difficult to write out Z's in a signature."

"I can't wait to see what you come up for our tenth or twentieth anniversary."

"I might have notebooks filling up on the premise of those maneuverings too, but, h'mm, perhaps I shouldn't spoil the surprise."

"Yeah, don't. I like your surprises."

They were honked at several times by passing vehicles, and were followed by an SBPD patrol car. The big head and shoulders of McNab were recognizable behind the glare of the windshield. Officer Kennedy, only in her second year on the Force, told them that they were there as an escort. "Chief Vick's idea," she concluded. Carlton was astonished that Shawn had no humorous retort, but quietly kept Octavia on her steady pace.

Carlton knew they'd neared their destination when the round edges of a horse trailer caught his eye. He didn't really know where they were, and had been enjoying the ride—how many times in his life was he going to ride a pony through the city?—without giving a thought as to their location. Now, whipping out calculations and remembering which turns they'd taken, and by the look of the building he passed often but rarely entered, Carlton made his assessment known.

"You're bringing us to the library?"

It was true. Young Atlanta Morrissey waited at the foot of the open horse trailer in the library parking lot. She took Octavia's reins as the pony neared, and kicked the stool within Shawn's reach. He would've shunned the use of it if he hadn't been wearing such a cumbersome costume. Lassie slid off first, and spotted Shawn's graceful descent. Morrissey was in a fit of giggles. Shawn had had a hand in getting the high school senior hired at the country club, specifically for the stables. She'd been around horses all her life, did dressage shows, some jumping, and had more ribbons for her achievements than Shawn cared to count. She knew more about horses than he did, but he knew what the horses were thinking. They considered themselves symbiotic coworkers. Plus, Shawn had an innate affection for anyone he could call Morrissey, after the former lead singer of The Smiths and popular soloist. She got Octavia in the trailer and Shawn closed the doors.

"Must've gone all right," Morrissey said in a clandestine whisper while she and Shawn had a second away from Lassiter. She was a little terrified of Shawn's significant other, and didn't know what the two of them saw in each other. "He's here, anyway."

"Nothing happened. I don't even think Octavia took a dump the whole way."

"I'll drive back that way just in case you were in too amorous a mood to notice." She laughed again, whipped out here phone and snapped a photo of the two of them. "This is definitely going on my next status update. Don't forget the game tonight. You have to be there at six o' clock. Want me to message you at five-thirty so you don't forget?"

Shawn pressed his two hands against his hard chest. "If I could feel my heart right now through this metal, Morrissey, it would be warmer and ten times its normal size. What would I do without you?"

"Be late a lot and probably get fired. Duh. Okay, boss, have fun." She tried to say something to Lassiter, but failed miserably. Trying to talk to Carlton Lassiter was like trying to talk to a man who combined the shame brought on by the Pope and the fear brought on by Simon Cowell. Turning magenta, far more pink than her curly red hair, Morrissey hurried into the truck, the country club's stylish logo painted on the door.

"Bye, Octavia. I'll give you an extra treat when I see you later!" Shawn called after the horse in the trailer. He heard Octavia's distinct baritone whinny and returned to Lassie in front of the library doors.


	3. Chapter 3

There must be no love interest.  
The business in hand is to bring a criminal to the bar of justice,  
not to bring a lovelorn couple to the hymeneal altar.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

3.

Still not sure what they were doing at the library, of all places in the city, Carlton waited, since Shawn waited, too. Opening his mouth to say something, Carlton started as the door opened. A man snappily attired in a peasant's Renaissance costume held it open.

"Good evening, my lords. Your journey was swift and true, I trust?"

Lassiter was beside himself—amused but yet not amused. He recognized the handsome face beneath the floppy velvet hat. "This isn't what I pay my taxes for, Alwin. Don't you have a firetruck to clean?"

Alwin was often called "Dobson's Mike." Not to be confused with Tanglevine owners Mike B. and Mike C. That the three of them happened to be friends, since the Vine had turned out to be something of a cop joint, they were called the ABC's (of Mikes). While addressing firefighter Michael Alwin to his face, however, they generally just called him Alwin or, to everyone's chagrin and confusion, Mike. He merely flashed his brilliant set of pearly whites and took off his hat. "If you find the service not to your liking, please take it up with my husband, whom I believe you know."

Lassiter grabbed the velvet cap and shoved it against Mike's face. But he started chuckling, a quiet and small thing afraid of its own power, and all was well among the three of them. Alwin ushered them into the library. To Lassie's embarrassment, the library was quite open for the public and many patrons were at the computers or in the stacks browsing traditional paper books.

"I hope you have another permit shoved someplace," he mumbled Shawn's direction.

"Relax, I got it under control. Would I lie to you on one of the most important days of our life? H'mm? Really, look at this face." Shawn raised the helmet's visor, and of course all Carlton could see were Shawn's eyes. They were expressive, honest enough, though tinctured with the slightest hint of crap. Carlton slapped the visor back down: Shawn jumped at the noise. "Right in my ear, Lassie. _Right _in my ear! You're going to pay for that later."

Alwin stopped at one of the private study rooms in the back. Another woman stood there, dressed in modern clothes but with a conical hat and a feathery train of silky fabric spewing out of its top.

"Greetings, gentlemen," she started, gesturing to the table covered in picnic wares. "As you can see, our best table has been reserved for you."

"Thanks, Pilar," Shawn said to his favorite librarian. He was excited that everything was going so well. Maybe he could even talk to Lassie about that thing that he'd been avoiding. "Everything looks wonderful. I couldn't have planned it better myself."

"You did plan this yourself, Shawn," said Alwin. He'd known Shawn about eight months, had known _of _him a lot longer. He just didn't quite _get _Shawn. Dobson had the same problem. "Well, I gotta get back to the firehouse. Lunch break's almost over. Have fun, you two. Coming, Lady Librarian?"

Alwin held the door open for Pilar, and it shut with a squeak when they left. The ugly tan mini-blinds had been drawn across the two windows, and a sense of privacy came over the anniversary subjects. Shawn shoved the tip of his helmet to Lassie's chest.

"Tug."

"That'd better not be the most romantic thing I hear from you today."

"I rather doubt it. I'll grunt really provocatively when you do tug."

"I was hoping that undressing you at some point would be the least difficult portion of my day." He grabbed the helmet and pulled. It came off easily. As promised, Shawn let out a particularly pleasant moan. "I was expecting that to be harder."

Shawn winced. "Too—many—puns."

"Did you butter that huge Scottish cranium of yours before you put this on or what?"

"Cooking spray," Shawn joked, smiled, then flattened his face. "Am I kidding, or am I not? You'll never get me to squeal, copper."

"I'm checking the cooking spray when we get home." Carlton turned the helmet around in his hands. As far as he could tell, it looked like a genuine Dark Ages relic. "Where'd you get all of this, anyway, Ye Olde Don Quixote Shoppe?"

"Nope, much like the secret of my greasy Scottish cranium, I can't tell you that either, sweet, sweet lover of mine. Well, aside from the somewhat more obvious handmade portions of my outfit, which came chiefly from our friends, and my dad seems to go through an awful lot of paperboard for a man who lives almost entirely on red meat and fish. I had our friends help me, and I worked on it while you were at work and while I wasn't at work. Barely got it done in time, though." Shawn left his hands out. "Pull my gauntlets, Lassie. You know you want to. Promise, no bodily noises. Unless you kiss me, and our lips make that nice slurpy smacking noise."

Carlton's amusement showed in his eyes, pulling off Shawn's gauntlets without a kiss. He was very aware of the surrounding public building, mini-blinds or no mini-blinds. Aside from a few rambunctious interludes while camping, he tended to prescribe to the same belief as Rachel's troubled spouse in the film _Imagine Me &amp; You_: They have their own house, with their own bed, and they didn't have to do stuff like that anymore, now that they were mature and old. Shawn would never act his age, besides the occasional glimpse of it, and far too much of that had happened since the disastrous Hayworth case. But Carlton did provide Shawn with a brief nuzzle as he passed by. He dropped the gauntlets in the helmet, and left both on a table covered in delicious eats.

"This is strange-looking food, Shawn."

"Old food. I had a theme. Can't you tell? That's roasted lamb that Lady Olga made for us. Jules and Gus brought the bread. I assume it's from Breezeway's, but I wouldn't _swear _to it. My dad brought us the bottles of mead. And I made the tarts."

Carlton stared.

"Yes, I can bake without needing a fire extinguisher or the services of our valet. And I made these for us. Apple tarts. They're good. I ate one earlier to be sure that, you know, I didn't drop down dead or anything. How embarrassing would that have been? And sucky for you, too, on our anniversary and all, having me just die like that. Death by tart. Not exactly the way I'd like to go. Um, on that note, let's eat!"

He hurried them into chairs now that he was starting to feel like now would be the opportune time to talk to Carlton about that _thing _that he'd been dreading. Was it really necessary to bring it up? He supposed it was. Gus wouldn't let him rest until he did. If Gus wouldn't, neither would Juliet. Let the vicious cycle of nagging end before it began!

Carlton was still in a state of amazement, and sometimes his brain unwound entirely, leaving him with nothing to say for seconds together. "How'd you do all of this? And why the library?"

"The library because I like it here, and Pilar is awesome. Having two of three kids in the gay way will do that to a woman, I guess. Want to eat now or just talk? I want us to spend some time together. I'm sorry about the polo match tonight. I asked them to reschedule, but you know how it goes when you're the lowly serf at the stables."

"You manage the stables," Carlton added friskily.

"Co-manage," amended Shawn. "And that doesn't give me enough power to tell them not to schedule me on a night of an important polo matchup. Stupid equestrian games. Stupid polo playoffs. Stupid hunky guys in uniforms."

"Don't ogle them too much. I know how those polo players are."

"Really? How _are _they, Lassie? I'm suddenly very curious."

"It isn't them so much as you being a magnet that attracts them."

Shawn had no idea how to handle that compliment. "Gosh, yeah, it'd be nice if I could just wear some kind of symbol to let other people know I'm taken. I'll wear my rainbow bead necklace. That'll scare them off. Things might even end early."

"At least you'll be done by the time we have to go to the airport." Carlton finally tried the lamb, and found it much more savory than he thought it'd be. Lady Olga wasn't a bad chef, after all. Must be those southern roots. Shawn's continued silence unnerved Carlton. "You will be going to the airport with me, won't you? I don't want to pick them up by myself. I hardly _know _them!"

"No, it'll be fine. Really." Shawn grabbed Carlton's hands and pressed. "Really, I'll be there. Breathe. It'll be okay. They won't bite your head off or anything. They might interrogate you slightly and vet you to a noticeable degree, but you can put up with that! You're tough as nails! I mean, how many times have you been—"

Carlton stopped chewing. Shot? How many times had he been shot? Is that was Shawn was going to say? But Shawn had gotten shot too many times, and it seemed he was still having trouble talking about it and facing it. He picked up the bottle of mead. "Have some more of this, sweet, sweet lover of mine. I shouldn't be drinking it—I have to go back to the office."

"Vick won't be checking your breath. I already asked her not to."

"It's really weird, but I believe you. Then let us drink and be merry, love, for in another hour we have to go back to work!"

Shawn smiled, relieved that Lassie had the presence of mind to distract him. He clinked the top of their pewter goblets together. He sipped and ate, ate and sipped, and while masticating the heck out of the chewy but delicious bread, he finally knew he'd have to do it. He'd have to say it. He'd have to. If he didn't, he'd never say it and they'd never talk about it, and he and Gus would be in a whole lot of trouble with their domestic partners. Of course, Gus had already talked to Juliet about it, but still—

"I have something to tell you," Shawn blurted out.

When Carlton noted Shawn's pale lips and startled eyes, he dropped his fork and had another sip of mead, just in case. A very large sip of mead. "What about?"

Shawn's throat constricted, and while he was having trouble catching his breath, his heart managed to beat in his stomach, across the back of his neck, everywhere but where it was supposed to. His head swam, and he could feel perspiration prickling his armpits—but that might've been the thickness of the costume and the heat of the small room.

"Shawn?" Carlton prompted. He tried to think really fast. What was it? Something bad. All he had to do was look at Shawn to know it was bad. Shawn had gone to the doctor last week—and—and he'd seemed a lot quieter since. "Is something wrong? Are you okay?"

Shawn spit out the first thing that made any sense to him. "I love you—and I'm fine. I'm not sick."

Carlton's emotions dropped several degrees. "What'd you scare me for? Is it something else? Are you—"

"Jeez, Lass, I'm not breaking up with you. Will you just—just let me tell you—"

"You can tell me anything."

From the depths of the picnic basket, then on the floor by his feet, Shawn pulled out a small clipping from a magazine. With a trembling hand, he gave it to Carlton. He waited a second for Carlton to let it sink in. As soon as Carlton lifted his gaze, Shawn licked his wavering lips and spilled the secret.

"I know where the third sea chest is. That's why I asked you about it this morning. And I'm going to—" He gulped and sweated and practically _heard _his stomach churning. "I'm going to look into it with Gus. For now. I just wanted you to know."

Carlton tried not to show too much enthusiasm. "I think that's good."

"Good?"

"You can look into it if you want. Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"Because I swore off solving cases after—after—" He gave up trying to mention it. His therapist had suggested he try talking about it, even if he was alone in the house by himself. Talk about it out loud. But that seemed weirder and even creepier, even in Swedish, even in ASL. "I said I wouldn't do anything else except chase around some cheaters. And only then it would have to be the worthy cheaters whose cheatees pay well. I'll stop this sea-chest hunt if it gets dangerous, if I smell even a modicum of cordite, Lassie, I'm bolting."

"That's up to you. You know I've always supported you. I even read your articles for typos. I believe in you, Shawn, and I know you have talents, whether those talents are spiritual or magical or what-have-you. It's … it's been hard on you, I think, not solving cases. But I know these sea chests mean something to you, whatever that something is." He scooted the article back to Shawn using a forefinger on the table. "You have my blessing, just as long as this isn't going to prevent you from going to the airport with me tonight."

"No," Shawn's small grin lightened, the burden removed, "it won't. It won't interfere with anything. Anyway, I can't wait to tell them about it when they get here. Maybe they'll want to help."

"Why would they want to help?"

"I sense it, that's why. The way I sense many things, Lassie, except that one time we were in bed."

Carlton snickered, then broke into a laugh. "Eat your lamb, smartass. And tell me again what Jason and Sean Laramie have been up since you saved Sean from a murder trial." He was afraid Shawn would dwell. It'd taken a lot of therapy, ice cream and _My Little Pony_ to bring Shawn back from the depths the Hayworth case had dumped him, and any reminder of a case-gone-bad could shift Shawn into a semi-catatonic state again. "I haven't seen them since they went away together."

"First of all, you can't call Sean Laramie _Sean_. Don't laugh. I'm dead serious." He waited for Lassie's airy chuckles to subside. "You have to call him See-an. It's the only way I'm going to put up with having two Shawns around."

"He spells it differently."

"He spells it See-an. I'm the phonetic Shawn. See-an and I have already agreed on this, and we expected everyone to comply while the two of us are in the same room. I fully expect to call him Avery at least a half-dozen times, too. But our boy's all grown up, got himself hitched, and has his husband's last name. I bet he still has a stripper's physique, though, and killer eyes. No, don't pout, I like yours better. Maybe I should change my name when I get married. Shawn the Amazing_. _Lassie, I insist you change your surname to The Amazing."

Knowing Shawn's views on marriage—through osmosis, long talks with Juliet and, of all people, Dobson and the ABC's, Carlton had no fear of playing along—at least mildly. "I'll see what I can do about that. Do you even want me to ask about the third sea chest?"

Shawn shook his head, diving into the remaining bits of Lady Olga's excellent roasted lamb. "If I find out anything interesting, I'll tell you. It's just a lead at this point. And damn those polo players! If they didn't have that match this evening—" Shawn noticed the thinnest thread of annoyance in Lassie's face, and promptly shifted his saying—with a Texas twang. "Why I'd be swinging you on the back of my trusty steed, Lassie, and we'd be riding off to make sweet and sassy jambalaya out in the nectars of this good earth, and below the blazing heavens."

"I never heard a Medieval knight from the range before."

"Ain't too many like me, Lassie."

Thank goodness. A man only had one heart. "I've also never heard it called jambalaya before. You know how I feel about food metaphors."

"I've heard you mention it a time or two, and I've seen how it gets your dander up a bit, Pooch. Except for that one time when we was in bed. You didn't mind so much then."

Carlton let this go. His mind was beginning to regret the few hours of work he had left, the long hours before Shawn returned from the country club—stinking of horse and horridly sweaty. God, he couldn't wait. "Are you done eating? Need a ride to work? I can swing by the station and pick up the car."

"No need for that," Shawn started, getting up from the chair with ample cringes, "I've got it taken care of."

"Enough with the accent."

"But it's sort of natural-like. I can't seem to help it." Shawn returned to himself with a soft kiss from Lassie, first on his cheek, then on his mouth. "Thanks, I needed that. I also wanted it, so I'm a winner all around. No, don't clean up." He waved his hands as Carlton, took the plate out of his hands and shoved the remains of the chewy bread in his mouth. "Alwin and Pilar agreed to clean up for us."

"And why the library again?"

"Obviously, I couldn't ride Octavia all the way to the house! And I really wanted to do the horse thing. I conspired with Pilar and she said it was okay if we had our little tryst here. You and me. Not me and Pilar. That would be weird. And I can't even—ugh. I'm going to have some more mead. This is good stuff." He sipped, leaving the goblet on the table. "You look very dashing today, by the way. Everyone's amazed that I got you to wear an orange shirt."

"It's peach." Carlton patted the collar and tie knot self-consciously. It was a pretty peach shirt that Shawn had given as a birthday present. Months had passed before he had the balls to wear it. It strongly resembled the color of one of Shawn's beloved Little Ponies.

"You say peach, I say _oh-raaange_, so we'd better call the calling off—off. I don't think that's how Gershwin wrote it. All right, Pooch, let's get out of here. But kiss your savage and unruly knight first. After all, I work around unpredictable equines all day, and you get shot at by unruly civilians who experience an above-average rate of recidivism. These are dangerous days in the kingdom, my lord. We must be on our guard."

Dangerous days? Shawn forgot all about it once loss in a good kiss that curled his toes, sweaty in their cotton socks and leather boots. Curling nonetheless.

Back at the front door, Alwin tipped his velvet cap as he let them out. Waiting at the curb, a black limousine. Carlton was in shock.

"You hired a limousine to take us four blocks?"

"It's also taking me to work. You can go home, if you'd like. No one would hold it against you if you didn't go back to the office, not even the chief."

"You know I can't do that. I wouldn't mind going home if you were going to be there."

"But, since I'm not—yeah, I know. I'm heading off to work pretty early. Mandatory meeting with the bossman, and I'll need Morrissey's help getting out of this thing I'm wearing. Don't worry, she won't be scarred by what's underneath. I have my nude-colored leotard on, so we're good. I'll save it for later."

He nibbled Lassie's lower lip, now in the privacy of the limousine. They were kissing, the car was moving, and suddenly they were not kissing and the car had stopped.

"Damn, that really was a short trip. Ah well, we're at your castle's portcullis, my prince, and I wish thee a pleasant evening."

"Have a good day at the horsey office, Shawn. Thanks for lunch. And for being you. It's never a dull moment with you, Spencer."

"Except for—"

"That one time we were in bed. Yes, I know." He hugged Shawn, adding depth and feeling into it as only he could. He kissed Shawn by the ear. "Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary, Lass."

Carlton waited until the limousine drove out of sight, then kicked up the heels of his shiny black shoes to take the stairs two at a time. He couldn't wait to tell O'Hara what had transpired over lunch.

oOo

Story note links are in my profile!


	4. Chapter 4

The detective novel must have a detective in it;  
and a detective is not a detective unless he detects.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

4.

By the time Shawn started helping the teams' staff with the horses, he was fairly happy to be involved in something that required concentration. His mind had been wandering the last three hours, during the work meeting and after it. The majority of labor he'd relegated to Morrissey, but she went home at six—the busy life of a high school senior! Shawn spent an hour at paperwork (which involved the computer more than paper), bored though focused, beyond thrilled when the players started to show up. There were plenty of polo ponies to get out of trailers, equipment to ready, the field to go over (incidentally, the largest field in outdoor sports)—and Shawn was so busy he didn't have a chance to think about the sea chests, Gus or even picking up See-an and Jason at the airport.

Ten minutes before the seven o' clock match, Gus entered the big barn at the country club. Hunting for Shawn somewhere in his vast domain of equines was often so challenging it required a phone call and a "Where _are _you?" Not tonight. Gus walked in and found Shawn brushing down a pretty ebony-coated horse in cross ties. A polo player, presumably the rider of the horse, sat in a dusty chair nearby. Two staff members from the competing Malibu team applied their hands to inspecting the player's helmet and the horse's saddle. Polo was serious business, for all Shawn claimed to dislike it. One little oversight could lead to someone getting hurt. It was a wonder Shawn had the concentration for so much, though by then the teams knew him, and it'd be frustrating for them to break in someone else. There was no denying that Shawn was good with the horses, as odd as it was.

"Hello, Gus," Shawn said, perfectly chipper. "Come for some pony lovin'? Rubbing soft noses is a cure for what ails you."

"I came to see the match. Hugo Brennaman's son is on the Malibu team." Gus didn't say that he thought it'd look good to one of the higher-ups at the pharmaceutical company if he attended. Team support never hurt anyone in the corporate world. He would've told Shawn exactly that, if the player waiting for his horse wasn't also on the Malibu team. Maybe team support didn't hurt anyone, unless it led to the classification of flagrant kowtowing. That would not be so beneficial. "And I came to ask how it went with Lassiter. Did you talk to him about the—you know—the thing that we're planning to do?"

Shawn traded a rough brush for a hoof pick. He liked Zachi, Eric Moore's preferred horse. Zachi was one of the few on the Malibu team that didn't mind having his feet gone over and cleaned. "Of course I did," Shawn replied to Gus. "I'm not a coward—usually. Plus, there was mead involved. But I sweated while I asked him, if that justifies your worry about it, Gus. And I told him if that I caught so much as the stench of cordite, I'd quit."

Eric Moore's chair snapped back to all four feet. He'd been leaning into it, relaxing before the match, but at the mention of cordite— He knew Shawn Spencer used to work for the SBPD. Last he'd heard, Shawn had given that up. "Going back into the private investigator business, Shawn?"

"Just this one time, Eric."

Gus was flabbergasted by Shawn's casualness. That was _Eric Moore_, CEO of Five Star, a Los Angeles production studio that cranked out at least one blockbuster a year. And Shawn was calling him Eric, like they'd gone to high school together. Eric! Now Gus's pits prickled damply.

"Must be something worthwhile," Eric commented.

"Something that goes back to our childhood."

"Well," Eric lifted a shoulder—a brawny, hunky shoulder upon which rested Oscar nominations, "you gotta do it, then. You go off and talk to Gus. You're Gus, right? I figured you were."

Gus's throat tightened as he shook hands with Eric Moore. He managed to think of Eric Moore—Eric Moore, Eric Moore!—as another client to whom he was selling high quality chemistry and pharmacopeia. The underarm river dried up. "Yes, sir, I am Gus—Burton Guster. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Shawn's eyes lifted up to the sky. Gus was using his business voice, mixed with just a smidgen of his lower-pitched flirtatious voice. Gus argued that it was supposed to charm men who were not used to being charmed by other men. So Gus _had _learned something from Shawn's relationship with Lassie, even if it was how to make an ass out of himself in a new and exciting way. Eric Moore, though, didn't seem bothered. He was probably used to being charmed by men.

"I hope that you boys solve your new case successfully. I got this, Shawn," Eric said, taking the pick. "It's about time we got on the field, anyway. Enjoy the match, Gus."

"Thank you, sir, I will!"

Eric pulled Zachi out of the barn with the reins, and his two servitors toddled off behind him. Gus shook his head, clicking his tongue.

"You do keep interesting company, Shawn. Why didn't you tell me you were on a first-name basis with Eric Moore? _The _Eric Moore?"

"It hardly comes up in conversation, and you know how I don't like to name-drop. Besides," he swung into a flannel shirt he'd left nearby, "this is my job, my place of business. In my professional surroundings, I don't like to seem—you know—"

"What? Don't want to seem like what? Like you're in charge around here? Most of the time, you really are in charge around here."

"Sycophantic. I don't like to act sycophantic." Shawn buttoned shirt cuffs, still trying to get his point across. "It's hard to be taken seriously when you shovel horse shit for a living, you gotta admit. The powerful and elite of Santa Barbara and most of Southern Cal are at my elbows, Gus, and I don't want to fawn all over them."

Shawn just wanted to do his job, and Gus knew that. Shawn was still pleased to be working there, even after taking two months off, though he could hardly help that. Being in a coma for a week, in the hospital for three—well, Jefferson Roberts, the club's human resources manager, couldn't exactly fire Shawn Spencer for being incapacitated. If Gus read people at all, Jefferson was pleased that Shawn had recuperated so quickly, and, what was more, pleased that he'd wanted to return to the country club. With Waylon Scobie, the equine manager, dead and gone, Jefferson had appointed Shawn as assistant manager of the stables and its grounds. A new manager had been brought in from a country club outside Seattle. Tina Athens really ran the business side of the barns, but Shawn still had the most interaction with the horses, their people, and the country club staff. Multiple times had Tina admitted that the stables would crumble without Shawn.

This being a polo match, not a baseball game, there were umbrellaed tables set up around the lawn, close to the field but not too close. And being a Wednesday evening event, attire was a little more casual, many jeans and, coincidentally, polo shirts. Gus hardly felt out of place in his gold polo and black twill trousers. Shawn, on the other hand… Shawn would've looked out of place had he been wearing a Santa Barbara Country Club Polo Team ensemble. This didn't bother Shawn. He found them a table in the back, but Gus was soon off to pay homage to Hugo Brenneman. To be fair, Brenneman did look gratified that one of his employees paid attention to the company policy that they treat one another like family.

Shawn had ordered them lemonades from Gerta, one of the servers at the upscale club events. He didn't know Gerta well, but Gerta knew him. She was still at the table, asking him questions about his life and if he was going to the Tanglevine Club anytime soon and if they were going to have any good shows and if—

Gerta talked a mile a minute. She was also gay. She was also a huge fan of Shawn's. Thankfully, she was a bit bashful in front of Gus, and wandered off as soon as Gus took his seat. Gus shook his head at Shawn again.

"How do you make people fall in love with you?"

"She's not in love with me—just—just a garrulous admirer. For a segue, it looked like Hugo was in love with you."

"Hardly that, just thrilled to see me. Guess I'm the only one from work that showed up. So, what did Lassiter say about the sea chests?"

"You mean Juliet didn't give you a verbatim account as soon as she got home? I'm astonished. And disbelieving. Mostly disbelieving. Surely Lassie would've dished the whole thing to her as soon as he was back inside."

"Why do you say that? Maybe they were busy."

"Maybe you're a big fat liar," Shawn threw at him teasingly. "I know they weren't busy because Lassie told me so when we were riding to the library. He said they'd been going over cold case files. That equals a boring day in Lassieland."

Gus steeled his eyes against Shawn's provocation. Finally, he had to give in. "She said that Lassie had said a few things, but not everything. So, what did he say? To you? Specifically?"

"Just that he was glad I was going to look into it—with you. That's really all. So, here's how I want this to play out tomorrow. You call me in the morning."

"In the morning? Like, nine-thirty, or eleven-thirty? My morning and your morning don't match up."

"I don't care, pick one! I think See-an—"

"Please stop calling him that. It's Sean."

"It's See-an. I think See-an and Jason will be staying with us, at least that was the last I heard."

Gus picked at this. He couldn't help it. Something about it went against his need to have everything as clear-cut as possible. "Wait a second. You haven't talked to them today?"

"I got a message from See-an—"

"Please stop calling him that."

"From See-an this morning that he was packing and that he'd see us later. But, no—no, haven't heard from either of them. They're probably somewhere over Nevada right now. Maybe Utah. Hang on. Which one's shaped like a big square with a big hat? That's Utah, isn't it? I bet that's what they're flying over right now."

Giving no answer, Gus sipped his lemonade.

"What I'm thinking is that you pick us up tomorrow—"

"You're bringing them with us?"

"Gus, don't be the Poky Little Puppy. They're coming with us. I'm not _bringing _them. It'll be like a field trip. They swore that if I ever visit them in New York I could follow them around at their jobs all day."

"Jason's a corporate mastermind. His real job would bore you. And I don't think Sean should let you follow him to the set where he works. We all know what happened the last time you infiltrated a soap opera."

"That was a Spanish-speaking soap opera, Gus! Completely different! And we're only trying to find a sea chest. It's not like we'll—" Palish, Shawn cut himself off.

"You don't want to say it, do you?"

Shawn rapidly wagged his head.

"You're afraid of jinxing it."

Shawn nodded. He wasn't going to jinx their simple little investigation into an old sea chest. He started talking again. "We'll go over to Mrs. Glass'—Glass's? Glass'? Hey, what's the word on that, grammar swami?"

"You're asking me? You're the big freelance writer now, shouldn't you know?"

Shawn studied the middle distance as if his life depended on it. "I think tirelessly of apostrophes when I'm editing an article, Gus. Do I really have to think about them when I'm speaking, too? They're, like, totally invisible when we're talking. Why should I pay attention to them? There's some rule of thumb about apostrophes. Is it how your pronounce it? Yes, I think that might be it. And the fact that the grammar swamis back in the day did not like having more than two S's in a word. Probably didn't want Shakespeare, et alii writing out their plays looking like it was full of typos. So—we're going to Mrs. Glass'—S-apostrophe—house and kindly ask her about the sea chest. It sounds simple."

"Which means it'll probably be very difficult."

"Let's hope not. I don't want difficult, not with See-an and Jason in town. But it would be nice to know if I was right all along."

"And by 'all along' you mean since 1994."

"Precisely. That I was right all along and there are _three _sea chests, not just two. Huh! Maybe I really am psychic! No, no, that'd be too ironic. I couldn't handle it. I'd have to put that panoply back on, and then I'd really be ironic. Get it? Because of the iron and the—"

"You're not psychic. And this sea chest will be different than the other two: this one won't a goopy dead body in it."

Shawn twitched, trying to rid the air of the curse Gus might've just put on their investigation. "Yeah," he whimpered, "yeah, without a goopy dead body in it." That wasn't a jinx so much as a prayer. He politely applauded when the the Malibu team scored. At least, he thought they scored, but he really didn't know a whole lot about polo but that it was like field hockey on horseback.

"Really hot guys on horses," he text to Lassiter. "Wish you were here."

"I wish you were here," Lassiter texted back. He was _slowly _getting a hang of texting. Sexy texting? Not quite.

Shawn smirked, thumbing of a better reply. "Actually, I wish I were at home and we were in bed!"

"Yes me too."

"You know, Pooch, if wishes were polo horses I'd have a whole pitch full of them. O what do you know, I do, I do!"

-x-

As Gus was in no state of mind to watch Shawn "put away" (Gus's phrasing, not Shawn's) the polo ponies, Shawn had to find a way of getting home. More than any other night, aside from his first back at work after being hurt, he wanted to get home. He wanted a cup of tea, a little quiet time in a nice, quiet house before it was disrupted by very welcome visitors, and, possibly, the dirtiness that came with a case. Shawn remembered littering the dining room table with debris, newspaper clippings, notes, pens, even the detritus of dirty laundry as he tossed aside his "sloppies" in the middle of his study. If Carlton thought this willy-nilly side of investigating an odd practice for a man who danced among the innate talents of observation, magic, determination and just a touch of healthy psychosis, he never said as much. Carlton had long ago assumed that Shawn wasn't exactly psychic, not exactly _not _psychic, either. Shawn solved cases using feats too extraordinary for everyday, run-of-the-mill humans. And, anyway, to Carlton, Shawn was no more disgustingly idiosyncratic than Sherlock Holmes. All the greats had their quirks. Shawn vowed he'd keep the house a lot cleaner than he did during his final days rooting around in the history of Santa Barbara's first great family, the Hayworths. It was only a stupid old sea chest they were after.

That's what Shawn kept telling himself while he brushed down horses and doled out grain and hay, and while walking horses into their trailers and sending them on down the road. Malibu had toppled the perfect record of the local favorites, and Timothy Westcott, _the _Santa Barbara Team Hunk if ever there was one, had been tossed off his horse. All and all, it was a lot of excitement, a lot of work, and Shawn was a sweaty mess by the time Gerta came round to offer him a ride home.

He loathed to accept, hoping a better offer might come his way. He was saved from lying to her, telling her he'd already been promised a ride, when her phone rang and she waved a farewell at him. Aside from the cater-waiters stacking lawn chairs beneath the faint white strand lights, Shawn was virtually alone at the stables. If worse came to worse, and he had no way home now the buses had quit running for the night, he'd get Lassie to pick him up on the way to the airport. That'd defeat the object of getting home, showering, changing clothes, having a cup of tea before greeting their visitors. But it'd be better than staying at the stables all night.

To his surprise, it was Westcott who came into the stables with the offer of a ride. The two were mild acquaintances, as much as Shawn, the stables' assistant manager, could be acquainted with anyone who paid for premium membership at the club. And Westcott wasn't entirely unknown to Shawn. His family's history was sufficiently and curiously intertwined with that of the Hayworths. The two families had been at one another's throats in the first fifteen years of the twentieth century. Each wanted to buy up as much acreage as they could. Westcott's ancestor had helped design much of the city's layout. The Hayworths, meanwhile, had donated much of their land to the country club. While the Hayworths had all but vanished from Santa Barbara following the Second World War, the Westcotts remained active and recognizable. There'd even been a cop in the clan, an uncle of Timothy's that Shawn remembered from his childhood spent in and out of the SBPD. Timothy continued to support the SBPD as often as he could, and used it as a conversation piece while driving Shawn home. Westcott was considering a run for City Council, thinking it'd be the best way to do the most good. Shawn said nothing encouraging and nothing degrading. He probably would vote for Westcott regardless; Timothy was much better at business than a lot of the people currently in the Council. He'd certainly get the cop vote, and probably that of a lot of other union workers.

Shawn nearly lost his breath as Timothy, parking the car in the driveway of Shawn and Carlton's small bungalow, made a point of mentioning the Hayworths.

"I want to do something with that damn old house of the Hayworths', too. If nobody else is going to do anything with it."

Way too familiar with the castle-like structure on the northeast side of town, Shawn tried to think about it more rationally than he had in months. A part of him had grown to hate the Hayworths, and a part of him felt like they'd been haunting him. "You should. Somebody should. It just sits there. Takes up space. It could be making some kind of tax revenue for the city."

"That's exactly the point I mean to make. I thought I might try to find some investors and buy the place myself. Turn it into a museum. 'Founding Families of Santa Barbara' maybe." He saw the porch light blink on, Carlton probably wandering who Shawn was sitting in the car with. Not too many Ferraris landed in Shawn and Carlton's driveway. "Better get out before he gets suspicious," he laughed. "I know better than to rile Carlton's jealousy."

"It's nice to feel wanted," Shawn said. And it did, too. Carlton's jealousy wasn't so bad. Worse than some, maybe, better than others. "Sorry about the loss. And Rosewater throwing you off, too."

"I'll live. Good work tonight. I always say we wouldn't have scored half our goals if our staff weren't so talented."

Shawn thanked him, exchanged pleasantries, and hurried into the house. Exhausted, he was pleased to have Lassie to lean against for a solid minute—even slightly more than a minute. Shawn engaged him in a few intense osculations, finally remembering that time was zooming right by.

"Quickie in the shower?" Shawn asked, already taking off his shirt and heading down the hall.

Again, Carlton was reminded of Hector in _Imagine Me &amp; You_. He rammed into Shawn, picked him up, carried him four feet into their room, and dumped him on the bed. "How long do you think it takes me to get my clothes off?"

An answer wasn't required. Acting with precision and sped on by familiarity, they had all the important clothes out of the way in seconds. Even though Shawn felt far more disgusting and dirty than usual, stinking of horse, barn and sweat, his partner didn't seem to mind so much. It was flagrantly awful in a way that made it humorous and enjoyable.

Shawn was in the shower having his scalped scrubbed by shampoo and Lassie's fingertips. "Remind me next anniversary not to have anything going on. We can go away somewhere. That, what we just did, was exactly the way we don't like it, quick and hard." He blew suds off his face, right into Lassie. "At least I smell better now."

"That's a matter of some debate." But Carlton always did like the smell of the outdoors on Shawn. His inamorato's outdoor work, and their lovely, lovely bed, happened to combine two favorite things. It would be nice not to feel rushed next anniversary. He took down the handheld shower head. "Hold your breath, rinse time."

When they were rinsed, cleansed and toweling off, Carlton asked him what he planned to do with Jason and Sean while investigating the sea chests tomorrow. Shawn said what he'd said to Gus.

"I'm taking them with me, if they want to come along. I know Sean's doing something in LA on Friday, but that gives us Wednesday and Thursday to stagger around town. I gotta take them to the Breezeway Bakery. And they want to see where I work. The idea of See-an on a horse, though—well, it tickles my funny bone." He felt Lassie's fingers twiddle against his ribs, and jerked away from the torture. The two winced playfully at one another. "If we didn't have somewhere to be, I'd be chasing you around the house right about now. Revenge is my sweet mistress."

"It'll be a few days before we can do something like that."

"I know. I'm sorry about the polo match."

"That's not your fault. I could've taken the day off, too. But I didn't."

"But you didn't." Shawn poked him in the belly. "Fine, it's your fault we didn't have better sex on our anniversary. I tried to allocate blame fairly, but no, you wouldn't have it. I concede."

"I love it when you talk like a grownup."

"Gus and you both hurl excessively at my Socratic irony. So every once in a while, I do try to act like the kid who was nearly class valedictorian. Alas, that was many years and many hours of _Beavis and Butthead_ ago." He spit out toothpaste, rinsed, and grabbed Carlton for a very involved kiss before leaving the steamy bathroom.

Carlton tugged on clean trousers, his former clean trousers now wrinkling like a raisin on the bedroom floor. His shirt, however, was in pristine condition. Wearing non-work attire in public still felt weird to him, such as his current shirt with a tiny knit collar and short sleeves—very odd. Even Shawn had donned a nicer shirt in order to impress their affluent guests. Though Carlton worked every strand of his hair to a shape of absolute precision, Shawn left his hair wet with a bit of gel in it. It wouldn't matter: Shawn's hair would obey the will of its master to look both messy and fetching. Annoyingly so. Shawn had always had the wondrous ability to look ready to go while simultaneously appearing as if he'd just rolled out of bed. At least Shawn was showing that he cared to make a decent impression on the Laramies.

At the airport, they parked then waited in the baggage claim, a building that resembled a high-quality carport. Minutes after the arrival of the Laramies' flight from L.A., Shawn saw the buff, big-shouldered Sean Laramie enter—alone.

Shawn squeezed him tight, as if knowing that there was a reason he should dish extra affection to his visiting friend. When Sean had hugged Carlton, he looked at the two of them and felt his face heating up again.

"He's not coming," Sean started, then paused to catch his words before they wandered off again. "Jason, I mean. He's not coming. We had a fight this morning. So—here I am. I still have that screen test in L.A. Friday—and I didn't know how to tell you he wasn't coming, and I kept hoping he'd change his mind and show up in time for the flight—but that didn't happen, so—so—"

Shawn dragged him out of the depths of mindless rambling and heartbreak. "It'll be fine. I promise. It'll be fine." Because intuition, whatever he had of it, told him that Sean and Jason couldn't break up. They couldn't. It went against everything in the cosmos. Jason had to show up and make everything better.

Carlton patted Sean on the back. "Let's get your suitcases and get you home. You're probably more tired than you think."

It was an accurate assessment on Lassie's part. Sean was asleep in the guest room forty minutes later, after a cup of tea, the necessary sympathy, and a hot shower.

In their room, Carlton was endeavoring to read a new book about Lincoln, and Shawn was endeavoring to go over his plans for tomorrow, while taking notes on his next astrology article. A large portion of his creative laziness wanted to fill it up with breakup bullshit, because that's where his mind kept going. Sean and Jason, fighting so awfully that they would treat each other so disrespectfully. The look on Sean's face—

Shawn slammed his notebook shut and slithered into the sheets. "What do you think, Pooch?"

"I think I'm not sure I like this book yet. Seems to be written by an author with the intelligence of a sixth-grader. Or do you mean about Sean and Jason? Or you going out amongst the masses tomorrow with Gus, just like old times?"

"Both. Wait, no. Make that all three. Honestly, though, I'm not all that interested in what you're reading. Do you think we should call Jason?"

"It's probably better not to stick our oars in."

"You have better uses for your oar. I could email him."

"If you have to do something, my dear, I condone the use of email—if you twist my arm. It seems personal but not as imposing as a phone call. But I still don't think you should do anything. It's their fight."

"What if it were us? Fighting like that? Wouldn't you expect Juliet and Gus to impose on our behalf?"

"Yeah, but it's all moot, isn't it? We don't really fight. We disagree. I always say I'm sorry. So do you, when you're actually the one to blame—which, sadly, isn't often the case."

That was true. Their arguments, brief and heated as they were, often were the result of an action or careless phrase of Carlton's. Shawn fought for the sake of having a fight. He needed to yell once in a while, so did Carlton. It got the tension out that sex, alone-time, stress and work couldn't—and sometimes created. Sean hadn't put forth a lot of details on his and Jason's fight, merely saying it'd been coming for weeks and that they were not surprised by it. Shawn and Carlton understood. Their fights came like that, too. Shawn had tried once to find some celestial connection to it, but it was really no more than the ebb and flow of emotional tides. Nothing accounted for it.

"They do have funky Mars placements," Shawn said, snuggling up to Lassie's hip and curving his arm around Lassie's thigh. "I remember looking that up once."

Carlton chuckled, finally bookmarking his spot in the lame tome. "You and your astrology, always hilarious. For someone who doesn't believe in ghosts, you put a lot of stock in planets that don't even impact Earth."

Shawn's brow wrinkled. "Who says I don't believe in ghosts?"

"Uh, you do!" He clicked off the reading light and turned to grasp Shawn's hands. He made them clap together limply. "You, Shawn, don't believe in ghosts." But he quit clowning around when Shawn's silence morphed into a deep, untouchable thing. The pain was so intense and so eerie that Carlton wanted it to go away. "What, you do now?" He tried to laugh, but it was flat, deadening into awkwardness. "Shawn?"

"It's nothing." Shawn tucked his head under Lassie's chin. "Just that sometime I think the Hayworths are running around Santa B as ghostly apparitions. Stalking my footsteps. Pissed that I couldn't solve their case and nearly got myself killed in the process."

Or had gotten himself killed. He'd stopped breathing. His heart had quit beating. By the grace and willpower of some otherworldly being, he'd breathed again and his heart had started again. He'd believed in ghosts ever since.

He couldn't quite tell this to anyone. Not Gus. Not Lassie. Not even his therapist. Maybe the Hayworths really _were _following him.

This didn't tell him what he should do about Sean and Jason, though. With Carlton snoozing on his shoulder, Shawn stared into the ceiling, dappled by the neighbors' lights through the trees and mini-blinds. He had to think about this.

By midnight, Shawn was asleep, and Carlton was in the living room with Shawn's laptop, typing a short email to Jason Laramie.


	5. Chapter 5

There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel,  
and the deader the corpse the better.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

5.

In the morning, Carlton was unsuccessful at waking Shawn.

Well, waking him, yes. Getting him out of bed? No.

Carlton saw Shawn's writing paraphernalia littering the bistro table in the dining room, and figured Shawn must've gotten up and worked on an article. As usual, most of the notes were in a smattering of languages, most not English. Shawn preferred three languages that began with S: Swedish, Spanish and Slovak. The Swedish he'd learned while working under a team of ecologists in Canada in 1998. Shawn had been their assistant and had learned more Swedish than ecology. The Spanish was just sort of natural to him. The Slovak came from his stint in a Slovakian restaurant in Washington, circa 2000.

Shawn knew other languages, too, but those, along with ASL, were his three favorites, the three he used the most. Carlton had caught Shawn talking to himself in ASL, as if he couldn't help doing it. And one time, that'd happened while they were having lunch together at the station. Chief Vick saw the two of them exchanging signs, Carlton knowing only the primitive basics—enough to say "I don't know." Vick had asked Shawn to crime scenes mainly as an ASL interpreter. They had one on retainer, of course, but even he had to take vacations, and speaking Spanish was more common among the PD than ASL.

Shawn's brain amazed Carlton. So did Shawn's ability to sleep after a long night of writing. He tried again to get Shawn out of bed, leaving a hard smack on Shawn's butt, lessened in severity by a few layers of covers.

"I have to go to work," Carlton said, riling Shawn at the shoulder. Sleepy brown eyes finally reached his, a minuscule comprehension alive in them. "There he is. Good morning, sleepy head. Did you hear me? I have to go to work. Don't forget that you have company, and Gus is coming for you later. I set the coffee to brew in thirty minutes. It's half-caf. Should be enough to get you going."

Shawn grabbed the end of Lassie's tie. "Hang on, sugar cake."

It was a continuous game between them that Shawn's pet names be ever so much cuter and workable than Carlton's pet names for Shawn. Calling Shawn sweetheart seemed off somehow. And the grabbing-the-tie thing, Shawn had been doing that to flirt with Carlton for what seemed like eons.

Shawn managed to stick a couple of fingers between Lassie's shirt buttons, getting a feel for the cotton tee underneath. "You still meeting us for a late lunch?" His voice was thick out of his scratchy throat. The coffee would probably help.

"As far as I know. Cafe Del Sol. Two o' clock. I won't forget."

"Better not."

"I won't."

"I'm going to call you at one-forty-five just be sure."

"You won't have to. I'll beat you there."

Shawn tugged at the tie again, bringing them closer together. "I kinda love you, Lass."

"I more than kinda love you. Have fun with Gus and Sean today. I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for."

"Right," croaked Shawn. He wasn't quite as convinced as Lassie seemed to be. But he looped his arms around Carlton's neck before sending him off to the frequently dull world of policing. He received a much more perverse smack on the butt as Carlton walked out.

Lethargic, Shawn pottered around the house, slurping coffee and reading. Eventually, the guest room door opened, showing Sean the house in daylight. He'd seen photos of the new paint and decor in emails Shawn sent—he wasn't much of a social media person after his hospital stay. Sean liked the bright colors: "Very not like Carlton at all. Very like you, though."

His smiles were painful to look at. Shawn could see the agony in him.

"Don't you and Jason fight a lot? About little stuff?"

"We rarely fight," Sean answered, filling a mug of black single-source coffee. "That's why it's worse when we do."

Gus's arrival brought a needed supply of energy, almost of the celebratory variety. Shawn, as soon as his brain had been in working order, had sent Gus a message saying that Jason hadn't come and not to be surprised when he got at the house. Consequently, Gus overcompensated in his joy of seeing Sean again. Sean was a bit special to Gus, too, being the first case he'd helped Shawn solve—sorta—after marrying Juliet. Practically while marrying Juliet. Though what Gus actually remembered from that time was telling Shawn to kiss Lassiter and get it over with, not really so much with the case. But it was all a matter of personal perspective. Gus still felt like he and Shawn had solved it together—or, rather, the answer had more or less popped out of the ether and out of Shawn's mouth.

Sean and Jason Laramie had been together for years, and it was odd to see one without the other. Gus did his best, but he soon saw that Sean was a little too distracted to pour his wounded heart into the vacation.

Shawn planned a little breakfast on the patio. He was getting good at hosting get-togethers, the more spontaneous the better. He threw together (literally) a cassoulet with diced ham, green onions and broccoli. While it baked and whetted their appetites with its odor, they sat in the morning sunlight and talked about their plans. Sean was enthused by the idea of tagging along while they investigated a mysterious sea chest. He was intrigued by the stories Gus and Shawn told about their childhood meeting with identical chests. Shawn told him about the second one, using more detail than he'd given Gus ages ago.

"You never told me that was Lassiter!" Gus burst out saying.

"Yes, I'm sure I did."

"You did not. I never knew it was Lassiter who'd let you look at both of them! Those chests! Shawn, you told me it was Dobson! Now why would you lie about something like that?"

Sean was good at picking up on people's reasons. Perhaps it was the actor in him, always vigilant of the reactions of others, always wanting to know what they were doing and why they were doing it. "Maybe he liked Lassiter then and didn't want you seeing into him."

Gus huffed, feeling exposed and angry about it. "I wouldn't have judged you," he said softly to Shawn.

"I didn't _like _Lassiter then—but there was something about him, something about that time. I can't quite put my finger on it. And I didn't mean to lie to you, buddy." He clapped Gus on the shoulder. "All these years, I really thought I'd told you it was Lassiter who'd let me into the Unknown Room, and the Unknown Room in the Unknown Room. Forgive me?"

It was easy to forgive Shawn. Sometimes Shawn really did have the memory of Dorrie in _Finding Nemo_. Amazing what people wanted to remember, opposed to what had actually taken place. He'd been through something like that with Juliet just the other day. Unfortunately, when he tried to tell the tale to Sean and Shawn, it was only funny to him. His frequent pauses to cackle at himself left Sean and Shawn regarding one another, embarrassed for him.

After the meal, and with Sean away for a minute, Shawn confessed to Gus that he'd sent Jason an email.

"Shawn, what do we always tell you about interfering?"

"I'm guessing 'Do it as often as you can, Shawn, because you're so good at it' didn't make that list?"

"You know better. It's Sean's and Jason's fight. Not yours."

"Yeah, but when you say it like that, it sounds like I _should _be involved. My name's Shawn, too."

Gus let this go. He couldn't really argue against it. Curiosity and hope overcame him. "Well, since it's done, did Jason email you back?"

Shawn checked email on his phone, but shook his head. "Not yet. He might've emailed Lassie back, though."

Gus gave a Huh? Face.

"I'm pretty sure Lassie emailed Jason, too. Oh, hey, the Reds won last night. Padres lost. Juliet will be disappointed."

"Juliet says that the Padres are digging themselves into a hole and they're not going to make the post-season now. And how'd you get me to stop reprimanding you?"

"Because I'm clever, and that's what clever people do. And I mentioned your wife. It always distracts you."

"I should try it on you sometime."

"Neither mentioning Juliet nor my wife will help. I'm too used to Juliet, and I don't have a wife."

"You should _get _one. Why won't you marry Lassiter?"

"You know my reasons."

"I really don't. Neither does Jules. She thinks it has something to do with you having been shot."

"She can say that, if it makes her feel better. Mets won. So did Toronto. H'mm, didn't see that one coming. All these seasons later, and I'm still not sure how I feel about interleague play. Does it really _do _anything for the League?"

Gus grew frustrated at Shawn's unwillingness to discuss it. Shawn played it cool whenever Gus mentioned one of two things: marrying Lassiter, and the reasons Shawn wouldn't marry him—and that usually involved mentioning the multiple gunshots Shawn had miraculously survived. Gus was still sorry he hadn't been there, and still sorry that Juliet had been part of the first team to show up. She'd been the one who'd put a bullet in Waylon Scobie. From what Gus had managed to squeeze out of his wife, Shawn was already unconscious when she took out Scobie. The whole saga had remained convoluted, and, the least-favorite word in police lexicon, unsolved. No one had been able to determine why Scobie had gone after Shawn. If Shawn knew, it was his secret. Gus understood Shawn's silence.

Often, Gus used the "Why don't you marry Lassiter" card as a means of teasing Shawn. Only in the last couple of weeks did Gus seriously wonder if Shawn refrained from matrimony because of the shooting, and not for, as he used to say scoffingly, political reasons.

Returning to his friends on the patio, Sean wasn't subjected to the sensation that they'd been talking about him. He was glad for it. In private, he expected Gus and Shawn to whisper about his intense fight with Jason. If Gus and Shawn did engage in that kind of talk, they'd would never show it. It was a relief to be there with a distracting activity planned. The sea chest sounded Scooby-Doo worthy. The last time Sean had been in a mystery, there'd been a script and rehearsals, an actor played the villain. Prior to that, his poor old self had been saved from felony charges by Shawn. Knocking on a lady's door and asking to see an antique sea chest seemed way less stressful.

-x-

"It isn't here," Mrs. Glass informed a party of three very handsome men just entering the prime of their lives, and, luckily for her, the front hall of her dashing house. "As much as it pains me to say no to you, Shawn Spencer, and dear Mr. Guster, I'm afraid the trunk's not currently in my possession—technically speaking."

The fact that it wasn't there stung. It stung less because Mrs. Glass, like many in Santa Barbara who followed such goings-on, was a fan of Shawn's and Gus's. And, not withholding any judgement of herself and ample free time, she was more than a little intimidated by Sean Laramie. He was far more good-looking in person than he was on television. Shorter, though that didn't bother her. She appreciated short men. They always felt like they had to compensate for it. Shame about the gay thing—and the wedding ring. He would've made a nice memory to have in her collection.

Shawn was immediately aware of Mrs. Glass'—how could he put it?—vixenish qualities? Mad cougar skills? Rapacious need for sexual gratification? Then again, the moon _was _nearly full, and that was inclined to make people friskier than usual. In Mrs. Glass' case, however, Shawn was unwilling to admit this was Mrs. Glass friskier than usual. And that was rather creepy. He tried not to be repulsed, only grateful that he had someone at home, and it was no longer required that he stare at people like they were screwable pieces of meat. Eek. Had he ever been like that? No; he'd met toasters more likable than some people.

His mind took a zipline back to the missing trunk. "Do you know where it is, Mrs. Glass? It's important that we find it. We're trying to attach some history to it. A—you know—what's that thing called—when you have a piece of paper that tells you where an antique came from and—"

"It's called provenance, Shawn," said Gus. He was perfectly aware that Shawn knew the word. Who stayed at home all day and watched _Antique Roadshow_ reruns on Ovation? Shawn did. But it was nice of Shawn to give him an in. "Forgive us for barging in here like this, Mrs Glass," he used his smoothest, butteriest voice, "but we are looking into the provenance of the chest for a client of ours."

"I'll save you the trouble of asking," Mrs. Glass said. She wished she'd take them up on her offer of sitting down and sipping mimosas, but sipped hers alone. "I don't have any provenance papers on that trunk, delightful as it is. I bought it at a yard sale years ago. I hardly thought the thing a worthwhile antique. Can I ask, who's looking for it?"

"We can't tell you that," Shawn said. "Not without the permission of our client."

Sean played along. "I'm their client." His arms folded, muscles bulging. Many a charming quadragenarian had ogled him in a fashion quite like Mrs Glass exhibited then. He was used to being a favorite among her age group, and, oddly, of her socioeconomic standing. It was always the rich and bored one had to look out for. "I was thinking of adding it to my own collection. I have a couple of trunks from the early part of the twentieth century, and even a portmanteau from the Twenties with a provenance that links it to William Carlos Williams." He could just about hear Shawn's and Gus's heads whirling. "If you're willing to sell your item, Mrs. G, I'd be an interested buyer."

Bothered to be softened by Mr. Laramie's suaveness, and his delicious bedroom eyes that'd seduced many a woman on _Gotham Splendor_, Mrs. Glass kept her outward cool. "If you can find any provenance for it, Mr. Laramie, I'd be happy to entertain your offers. If, on the other hand, you cannot provide any decent authenticity regarding its magnificent origins, then I will take no less than five hundred for it. If, as you say, you wish to add it to your reservoir."

Sean, after glancing at Shawn, agreed to the deal.

Shawn clapped his hands. "Bu-ut, we still have to find the darn thing, don't we, guys?" He gave his best fake-laugh. "Yes, we do! So! Let's get on that! Where'd you put it, Mrs. Glass? And you don't have to show off your inviolate Scorpio side to me. I can see right through you."

"Of course you can, dear," Mrs. Glass responded. How'd he know she was a Scorpio if he wasn't psychic in some way? With a pad and pencil taken from the telephone table, also covered in little old antiques, she wrote out an address, but gave her telephone number directly to Sean Laramie. "I sent the chest off for reconditioning. My friend Homer has it. You can see the chest at his place. Then, if your search ends fruitlessly, I'll be happy to see you again, Mr. Laramie. I'd be happy to see you in either case." She spoke next to Mr. Spencer. "If you can't find Homer at that address, that means he's gone off to that damn house to do some work today. He does that whenever he has a free hour or two. You'll probably find him there."

Shawn's lungs tightened. A tingle shot up and down his spin. The hairs along his forearms stood on end. "The—which house? The—not the—the _Hayworth _house." Unable to breathe a second ago, he could now feel himself—literally feel himself—turning green. He already knew they wouldn't find Homer the handyman at his regular address. They'd find him at the Hayworth house.

"Someone has to mow the grass at that damn place," Mrs. Glass said, herding the striking trio of masculinity toward the door. "Homer's father used to be their groundskeeper, so he thinks he owes it to them. Not that anyone _pays _him, mind. He does it because he can't help himself. Well, happy sea-chest hunting, boys. I look forward to another visit from you. Especially you, Mr. Laramie. Make it at a time when you can stay for lunch. I do enjoy watching handsome men enjoy wonderful food."

Shawn was a mixed bag of emotions, many of them fairly rotten ones. Gus made sure that Shawn was capable of reaching the car. He seemed to be walking sufficiently enough, but he was still pretty pale, and, uncharacteristically of Shawn, his hands shook all the way up to his elbows. Gus got him into the front seat of the car. He and Sean stood off to the side, discussing possibilities.

"Think we should call Lassiter?" Sean inquired, not sure what else could be done.

"No, don't think so. In about five minutes, Shawn's going to be really mad at Lassiter. He just doesn't know _why _yet."

"I don't even know why." Sean waited as long as he could. Gus avoided eye contact. "Are you going to tell me?"

Gus tugged at Laramie's arm, inching them even further away from Shawn. He lowered his voice as low as it could possibly go, the ultimate Limbo Voice. As soon as he explained it to Sean, there was a concession between them. Lassiter should definitely not be telephoned.

Gus, kneeling by Shawn in front of the open car door, asked what he wanted to do. "You want to go and find Homer and that sea chest, or do you—"

"It's better if we just go to that house."

"Are you sure? You hate the Hayworths."

Shawn's look was potent, his decision unalterable. "But I can't get away from them, either. Let's just get it over with. I'd have to go eventually. Might as well be now. And I don't hate the Hayworths. What's to hate? They're all dead."

That was an inarguable statement. Back in the car, Gus tried to work out on his phone how to get there. It was the sort of place one knew, one drove by every once in a while, but, when actually trying to figure out how to get there, the mind was too challenged. "I don't know the address. I'm having a hard time finding it."

"It's twenty-two, fifty-one Nova Place." Shawn sighed. "I saw it enough when I was up to my eyebrows in research. And you tend to remember the address of the place where somebody shot you. Repeatedly. Until you— Never mind. Just drive, Gus."

Gus put the phone aside. This was one of the few times Shawn had ever mentioned it, and Gus didn't know if it was an opening he should take, or if he should let it lie. Maybe letting it lie was better. As soon as Shawn put everything together, which, eventually, he would, he was going to be too pissed at the rest of them to think straight. And they were going to be sorry. Really sorry. How were they to know the sea chest would lead them back to the Hayworths, the one thing they were trying to so hard to get Shawn away from? Maybe Shawn was right, and he couldn't get away from the Hayworths.

Thankfully, Sean knew what was going on now, and, what was more, he had Lassiter's phone number. He was also in the back seat of Gus's still new-smelling Chevy Spark, unseen by Shawn. He sent his thumbs to work typing off a message to Lassiter. Lassiter's response might've been predictable to anyone who knew the situation, whether or not he was a psychic.

"Shit. I'll meet you there."

That was reassuring.

But Lassiter didn't quite get there to _meet_ them. Instead, they pulled up to the front gate of the Hayworth mansion. Gus parked the vehicle they called the Strawberry, for its slightly pinkish-red coat, and everyone managed to roll out of their seats onto the steep incline of drive in the mansion's bumpy shadow. It was made of dark gray stone, with dark tiled roofs even gargoyles at the corners. It was a gothic castle, horrid and frightening and disturbingly beautiful.

"Do you suppose Edward Scissorhands is at home?" Sean joked.

"If I see Danny Elfman anywhere around here playing a violin and looking creepy, I'm leaving. I mean that," said Gus, feeling a little sweaty in his shoes, always a sign that something was wrong. "I think we should forget about this, Shawn, and get out of here. I really doubt anyone's home."

Now that he was there, Shawn didn't mind so much. A morbid fascination touched him as he saw the front door hanging open a good three inches. "Someone's been here."

"Yeah, the crew that came to clean up your blood." Gus said it without thinking of the consequences. He winced and whimpered when Shawn hit him with an expression of anguish and anger, a rare sight. "Sorry, I didn't mean, I—" Gus faltered, having no choice but to follow Shawn and Sean up the flight of shallow stone steps to the double front doors of deep orange-red. "It was a scary time for me, too. Please tell me we're not going inside."

"Dude, I'm _totally_ going inside," Shawn replied, eerily upbeat. His cheerfulness was ripped apart as his fingertips pushed the door in and scattered the numerous pigeons using the foyer as a roost. He shied back, waiting for the birds to calm and the feathers to stop flying.

"That place is full of bird poo," Gus said. "I'm not going in there. It's disgusting."

"At least it's not my blood," returned Shawn, feeling satisfied with so witty a riposte that had to do with his own bodily fluids. His three bold steps landed him inside. It did stink, but the smell wouldn't stop him. If anything did, it'd have to be something worse than piles of guano.

Something crunched under his shoe. He paused, deciding it couldn't be that awful.

"Owl pellets," he whispered to Gus and Sean. Then shrugged. "Still, not my blood, and that makes me happy." He brought out his phone, screen alight with a solid white glow to illuminate their surroundings. There wasn't much to see. "It was more exciting before."

Gus and Sean also had their phones out. All three screens lit the place well. The closest windows were in the parlor, up a step and more than sixty feet away, on the north side of the mansion. They passed the wide staircase. Gus commented that it still looked stable enough to hold somebody. "Not me," he said, "just somebody stupid enough to climb them." He jumped when Shawn started shouting.

"Hello! Homer! Are you here? My name is Shawn Spencer! With me is my associate, Harry Cox!"

Sean let out a huge laugh, making the pigeons restless again.

Gus was less than pleased. "Like I've never heard that one before."

Shawn went on talking to the shadows and the pigeons. "We just came from Mrs. Glass's! Not Missus Glasses! I mean we came from seeing Mrs. Glass! We were at the house of Mrs. Glass! That's what I mean!"

"I told you, Shawn: S-apostrophe. Why can't you remember everything?"

"I'm not a human Rolodex, Gus. And I don't think Homer the handyman is here."

"The lack of response must've been your first clue."

"I mean, surely he would've come for someone named Harry Cox. Am I right? Well, we've made it this far. Wanna be greater than Chester Copperpot? Then let's look around some more. It's strange being here again. I only saw the police photos of the scene."

"You actually looked at those?" Gus was disappointed, and a smidgen frightened for Shawn's sake. Gus had vowed he'd never look at them. "Lassiter was supposed to have those locked into the archives to keep you from snooping."

"He's my soul mate, Gus. You think he can hide much from me? He's terrible at hiding Christmas and birthday presents. How's he going to hide the file of my attempted murder? I want to go out back for a sec. Just want to see if it's true that they really had an oleander tree. Seems I vaguely recall that from when I was here before, but, I—I can't be sure."

His energy was starting to slip a little. Putting on a brave face in front of Sean and Gus was one thing, but feeling the atrocity of standing in that place again was something he had to do for himself. As far as his friends and family knew, he'd been _saved _there. As Shawn saw it, he'd _died _there. That tended to change a person's perspective.

Up in the raised parlor, Shawn paused on his way to the back entrance to the garden. The phone's screen had gone out, leaving only the eerie light of the dirty windows to radiate the shapes of his friends.

"Do you guys hear something?"

"Yeah," Sean said, "like running water."

"Sounds like," Gus paused, "a creek or a fountain or something."

Shawn sucked in a startled breath, having it hit him. "There's a fountain in the back."

He ran to the door, shoulder pounding against it to pop it out of the tight frame. The force sent him shooting forward through the suddenly open door and into the yard. Gus and Sean came up quickly from behind. Shawn came to an abrupt stop. The fountain was in his line of sight. Near it stood a lanky and attractive gentleman—Carlton. But there was anomalous pale thing hanging out of the fountain's bottom pool. It bobbed weightlessly as the shallow waves hit it. A four-foot cascade dribbled across the torso of a corpse.

"You three stay there!" Lassiter commanded. He needed the coroner, a forensics unit, and he needed someone to get Shawn far, far away from the Hayworth mansion.

Shawn's gaze was fixed on the body. Only one sentence seemed to circle in his thoughts. "This time, that's not me."


	6. Chapter 6

No willful tricks or deceptions  
may be placed on the reader  
other than those played legitimately  
by the criminal on the detective himself.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

6.

Shawn had made it to his favorite place in the SBPD station: the often unused video room. It was dark, had a big table, comfortable chairs, and was probably the only room in the building that didn't contain a nasty odor of moldy mop or damp socks. His head was comfortably at rest on the crook of his arm. He was as boneless and relaxed as he could be. His mind, on the other hand, kept up a constant rotation of thoughts.

He was in such a catatonic state that he didn't even raise his eyes when the room to the video door opened and closed. Knowing the sound of his father's walk, Shawn remained motionless, hopeful to disqualify himself from holding any sort of conversation with his dad. Not really what he wanted right then.

Something slid across the table and hit him lightly in the arm.

"I brought you some tea."

"Yeah, because that'll make everything better."

Henry had learned to decipher Shawn's muffled speech decades ago. Affectionately, he ruffled up the hair on the back of his boy's head. "Come on, it's not that bad. They were just trying to help. How were they supposed to know it'd lead back to the Hayworths?"

"Because everything in my life leads back to the Hayworths." Now Shawn lifted his head, lolling it around, wincing at the dull pains pulsating around his eyes. Dad looked pretty awful, too. "Were you in on it?"

Henry said nothing, but he wasn't so good at hiding guilt from Shawn.

"Dad, seriously? You too? Was the whole department in on it? 'I know, let's get Shawn Spencer out of his retirement and make him chase that old sea chest!'" He jumped from the chair, skidding it across the floor. Once up, he paced angrily back and forth, trying to reason it out in his mind. "Why didn't everyone else just mind their own business? I was fine before—fine not working cases and doing something else with my life."

"But you're missing the point," Henry argued. "The point is that Lassiter still found that third trunk. And you _were _right all those years ago, Shawn. There _were _three. And at first Lassiter couldn't believe you were right. He told me about it and the whole thing just sort of snowballed from there. You just picked a shit day to see Mrs. Glass about it, that's all."

Shawn stared at him—hard. Henry felt miniature daggers surging through the shield over his feelings. He was disappointed in himself.

"All right. No. Lassiter and I did not do our due diligence when we set this whole thing up. We didn't check to see if Mrs. Glass and her creepy, mousy groundskeeper had a connection to the Hayworths. Why in a million years would we think of that? All the Hayworths are, as you know, dead. If they're not dead, they don't live in Santa Barbara anymore—and that's a fact, Shawn. We just thought we were doing what was best for you. It backfired. Don't be pissed at Lassiter for it. Or me, for that matter, but I'd take the blame for Carlton. He really had no idea. None of us did."

Shawn supposed that was true. The sting of the situation, the helplessness of it, hadn't left him. The coating over his father's often fumbled words were toxically sweet. Shawn fidgeted, looking at the ground. "I want to talk to Carlton. Could you ask him to come in?"

Henry nodded, not adding a word. He got up, patted Shawn on the shoulder, and took off into the precinct's open area of detective desks. Lassiter was sharpening pencils. Trying to keep his thoughts occupied the last twenty minutes had been fairly difficult. Downright challenging, in fact. No, worse than that: impossible. A glaze of hope crossed him as he noticed Henry's approach.

"Shawn will see you in his office," Henry quipped, adding a sardonic smirk.

Shawn didn't call the video room his office, but he did often refer to it as a tree house. It had a lot of wood, and a kind of elemental feeling about it. Twice, Carlton rapped knuckles on the shut door, then was hailed to enter. Standing in the middle of the crowded room, Carlton found Shawn irritated and tense—not that he'd been expecting something else.

"Sit," Shawn commanded, kicking the leg of the nearest chair.

Carlton sat, rearranging his tie nervously. The intensity of the silence burned his heart. "Shawn? I want you to know how sorry I am."

Shawn's annoyance wasn't easily absolved. "I know you're sorry," he said, tone flat with anger. "What you did was hurtful and embarrassing to me, and I know you're smart enough to know that. And you also know that I'm not going to forget about it and forgive you right away. It was an elaborate plan, Lass, I'll give you that."

"But not elaborate enough. I didn't know about Homer's father working for them, that it would lead you—" He quit talking while Shawn waved him to silence.

"I didn't expect you to know that. I'm not angry at you about that. It's the embarrassment factor, actually. And sorta-kinda the lie factor. And it was elaborate. I mean, you did have to find a way for me to get to notice the trunk in the first place. Right? Getting me to look in a magazine that I've never opened before—that takes intelligence and a little bit of mischievousness."

"That was Gus's idea." Should that disassociate him with it even slightly. The way Shawn seethed, the only thing that'd help Carlton out of the doghouse was time—and plenty of it. All the sudden, Carlton knew what he'd done, how awfully he'd behaved in Shawn's eyes. "I belittled your life, didn't I? I made it seem like what you're doing now isn't important."

Shawn endured the weight of tears hitting the back of his eyes. It was a relief to hear Carlton say so. "Yes," he mumbled, nodding. "You did do that. Not just you. Everyone else, too." He let Carlton take a hold of his arms and press them together, just for a second before he pulled away. "I respect your work and everything you do. I even like the way you double knot the garbage bags when you gather trash on Sunday nights. I even like the way you almost constantly ask if I'm okay when I get to breathing so hard when we're in bed. I even like the way you tell me not to eat the chicken marsala on my plate because it might be too hot and I'll burn my tongue. These are the little ways you respect me and look out for me. This was wrong, and you knew it when you did it."

Carlton's face was beet red. He wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or cry. One or the other would have to happen as soon as Shawn dismissed him—which was sure to happen any second. "I am sorry that I—"

"But," Shawn clipped the word, making Carlton shut up, "I am glad you were there this morning. I should've—I don't know—shouldn't have gone except that I felt like I had to go." Shawn saw Carlton wanting to sweep him into his arms. He quickly caused a detour by holding up a palm. "I haven't forgiven you. I just understand where you're coming from. It'll take me a while to forget this happened, if I ever do. And it'll take you a good long while," he inhaled and let it out as he talked, "to respect my life as it is now, little and insignificant and different as it might be."

"I don't think your life is little, Shawn."

"But?"

"But I miss having you bug me at work sometimes, all right? I liked your hair-brained ideas, the way you solved things with thoughts and concepts I can't even grasp. You were good at it. You're good at the other stuff, too. No one can bullshit his way through an astrology forecast with your level of sensitivity and humor—" Carlton sighed, returning to the maudlin. "But you were good at this, too. I wanted you to remember that."

He tapped Shawn's cheek, the one turned toward him, and left a kiss there. He walked out, hoping he'd reached Shawn in a way that would tighten their bond rather than pull them further apart.

Shawn returned to the seat he'd vacated. His legs had refused to hold him up another second. That talk hadn't gone very well.

He sipped the tea his father had brought him. Was there a way out of this? And who was the corpse? What was her story?

Lassiter hadn't been sitting in his desk more than fifteen seconds before the great bodily giant known as McNab appeared. Pained and almost flinching, Lassiter took in McNab's sympathy—and his relayed request.

"Chief wants to see you." He watched the detective throw a palm across his haggard face. This wasn't going to get easier. "It's probably about Shawn more than the dead woman. Haven't gotten an I.D. on her yet."

Lassiter took a second to speak his mind. When he did, he was direct and to the point. "It's really unsettling that half this police station constantly interferes with my relationship with Shawn."

"Well, we're just your big fat annoying extended police family."

"That makes me John Corbett," Lassiter mumbled. He straightened a little, able to live with that.

"And Shawn's Nia Vardalos. Without the puffy white dress. And no cousins named Nick. Don't feel too bad, Detective. All of us here like the two of you together. It makes us happy. You'd better take this." He dished a folder to Lassiter. "It's just some follow-up that we finished at the mansion. Hey, how'd you know to go to the back of the house before the front of the house? Gus said that they didn't see you until they saw you at the fountain."

Sometimes listening to McNab, or anyone in the building, was like listening to a comedy sketch show while under the influence of a massive sleep deprivation. Carlton thought he might've decoded McNab's question. "I heard the fountain. I knew the house was closed up, so I figured someone had been there, or was there, messing around. Actually," he shrugged mildly, almost ashamed to admit it, "I thought Shawn might've done something, maybe turned the fountain on."

"He does get himself into a lot of pickles. Big jars of pickles," assessed McNab. "Chief's waiting," he muttered, taking off.

In the chief's office, Carlton wisely shut the door behind him—softly. He didn't need to attract more attention to himself. But he got it: Vick stood up behind her desk, a sure sign that anger simmered beneath the surface.

"Sit." Vick directed him to a chair.

Immediately enswathed in deja vu, Carlton executed the command. On his lap, the crisp new folder. He cleared his throat as he opened it.

"I have a few theories about this, Chief, and I—"

"Save your theories until we know who she is. I'm having Dobson run through Missing Persons now. We'll find her." Karen slipped into her own seat, sure that Lassiter knew he hadn't been called in solely because of the body in the fountain. Unable to imagine what had exactly occurred between Shawn and her best detective, she was nonetheless interested. "What did Shawn say when he found out?"

Carlton inhaled, heart thumping. "Everything I thought he'd say when I was planning the thing. Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Karen waited. Was he asking her, or was he repeating his conversation with Shawn?

"Well, I'm not an idiot," continued Carlton. "I knew he would find out what I'd done, that I'd planned the whole thing—more or less. But I didn't expect the Hayworths to come into it, and I didn't expect that Shawn would go back to that house."

Karen grimaced for his sake, for her own when she realized the heightened level of her confusion. So, it was true that Lassiter did know Shawn better than anyone else. Who would've doubted it? Even Gus had thought Shawn wouldn't find out that nearly everyone in the police department knew of Lassiter's plan to raise Shawn's sagging interest in crime-solving. None of that helped her. "But what did Shawn _say_?"

"That I lied to him and embarrassed him, belittled his life. Which is true. I did. I owned up to it. Maybe that's good enough. Maybe it's not. Do you want me on this case, Chief, or don't you?"

Falling back into her role, Vick waved a hand at him. "I haven't made a decision yet. It'll be you or Arlette, I guess. I don't want O'Hara working on it. She has as many bad associations with that house as Shawn."

Carlton tightened his mouth. True, O'Hara _had _shot Scobie just after Scobie had tried shooting Shawn to death. O'Hara had succeeded. Gladly, Scobie hadn't. Carlton hadn't seen Shawn until he was at the hospital, the second he was rushed in. "Good decision, Chief, regarding O'Hara. She's having a hard time with that armed robbery, anyway. I might take McNab on this one, unless you protest."

"Why McNab? You can't stand him."

An irrefutable observation. But who could Carlton really stand, except O'Hara? "Because he wants to take his exam again and he could use the work. Plus, his family's been around this town for ages. He knows a thing or two about the Hayworth place."

It was clear that Karen didn't believe McNab capable of such a thing.

"No, really. Watch." Carlton held up a finger, turned his head and yelled into the bowels of the building. "MCNAB! GET IN HERE!"

He barreled into the office five seconds later, eager to be of use.

"Tell our esteemed chief what year the Hayworth house was built."

"Eighteen ninety-eight." McNab didn't flub or hesitate. "Although that was really the _second _house, the first one having been built in 1873 and burned to smithereens. Many a local historian will gladly tell you that the house was set on fire by a mad servant they had working for them at the time. But that story was never actually proved, and there's no record of the Hayworths even keeping servants until the second house was built, as I said, twenty-five years after the first one. Between Seventy-three and Ninety-eight, the family spent a lot of their time traveling through Europe, though they kept a smaller house on Nova Place. Construction for their new house started in 1890. There were a lot of delays and changes before it was finished, and the family moved in sometime in May of 1898."

Vick rubbed an ache out of her temple, eyes momentarily closed. "How do you know all of this, McNab?"

"I read a lot of Shawn's notes. The ones he took before he got—er—shot. And, also, my cousin wrote a book about a lot of the local historic homes here in town. She's really into architectural history. And, you know, I have a theory—"

"The chief doesn't want our theories until we know who the victim is." Lassiter filled him in, and he quieted. It sorta made sense to them.

But Vick was curious. She hoped Dobson soon had the woman identified. It'd make everyone's day a little better. Probably not Shawn's, though. "You'd better take Shawn home," she said to Carlton. "I'm sure he's had enough excitement for one day, and something tells me he won't be interested in this case. You can go home yourself, if you want."

"I'll call you when the vic's I.D. comes in," McNab offered to his superior officer. Shawn really should go home. Lassiter, too.

"I'm not sure he'll let me take him home," Carlton admitted. Though not quite ready to try his luck with Shawn, he gave his compatriots nods of gratefulness, for their sympathy, their understanding—and for being his big fat annoying extended police family.

Lassiter bypassed asking Shawn if he wanted to go home. Instead, he relegated the duty to Shawn's father. Seemed far more painless that way.

Henry griped about it, and wasn't above mentioning his reasons for disliking the idea. "You're a wuss sometimes, Lassiter. You gotta have more backbone to deal with Shawn. I'm _not _taking him home. _You _do it."

So far, it was the closest Henry had come to saying what he'd thought for two years, that Shawn and Carlton were a damn fine couple, as long as they stood up for one another. Even their fights were short, brief and ridiculous. This, though, was certainly important and significant. It couldn't be ignored and forgotten after a few hours, or smoothed by a few solemn apologies.

Taking umbrage at Henry's insightful quip, Carlton returned to the video room. He knew that the best way to deal with Shawn then would be to _command _him. There was no _asking _to take him home. There'd be a direct order.

"I'm taking you home," he said as soon as he was inside. It'd gone unnoticed that Shawn was on the phone. Shawn made a gesture for him to wait, a sign that Carlton took as favorable. Shawn couldn't stay angry at him forever… It was _almost _all right if Shawn stayed angry an hour or two. Carlton would've been.

Off the phone, Shawn passed the pertinent information along to Carlton, though the heat of frustration continued to color the tips of his ears. "That was Sean. His room at the hotel is ready, so he's taking his stuff over there. Before you ask how he's doing that, I'll tell you: his rental car. We're going to hang out later. What'd you say you wanted? To take me home?"

Carlton refused to entertain one iota of jealousy regarding Shawn's relationship with a hunky actor. For one thing, Sean was married. Shawn would've been married by then if he'd just said yes. Carlton's brow took on a twitch. Stress was flung at him from all directions. He hated bickering with Shawn; this was no minimal dispute, either. Unfortunately. He hated having Jane Does on slabs in Woody's office, too. "Um—yes, I'm taking you home."

So the afternoon lunch at Cafe Del Sol was off, then. Okay. Shawn could deal with that, but it didn't help get the point across to anyone. "I'm really all right." Maybe less all right than he'd let on the last hour, sure, but everyone stretches the truth once in a while. If ever he needed to, now was one of those times. "I'm more upset about it for Sean's sake than mine."

The pun was irresistible. "And I'm more upset it for my Shawn's sake than Sean's sake."

Shawn didn't find this so funny that he busted a gut laughing. A smirk touched his mouth and that was all. Out of the chair abruptly, scooting it back in place—he tried to leave the video room as tidy as he'd found it—Shawn permitted Lassie to take him home. Before Sean stopped by, some alone-time would provide time to write down his thoughts, digest what he'd seen and what'd happened.

But on their way out, in front of the Administration desk, Lassiter's pocket blurted, and he took a call he related to Shawn thirty seconds later. He didn't tell Shawn who'd called. "I have a stop to make on the way."

The stop was the county coroner's office. Shawn insisted that a wait in the car was fine with him. Watching Lassie disappear behind the dark glass doors, Shawn's interest escalated. Either Woody, with Dobson's research expertise, had found the woman's identity already, or it was something else far more powerful than a name.

Woody brightened at Shawn Spencer's unhurried, nearly cautious entry into the bowels of the small office. "Ah! There he is! There he is," Woody repeated, wrapping blue-gloved hands around Shawn and pressing him into the white lapels of his lab coat, thankfully clean. "Aw, our boy's found his way back to the dead and those who can't speak for themselves! I've missed you, Spencer the Younger. I really have."

Shawn tapped Woody's elbows, hoping to be let go soon. Really soon. Like, three seconds ago. Was Woody smelling his hair?

"That's our Shawn! Same old greasy coconut smell, like cooking spray," Woody commented about Shawn's hair-scent. He turned back to Detective Lassiter, grinning in his unnerving way. "I do so love it when the kids smell like kids."

Carlton tried to reach for Shawn's arm, but Shawn took a full step to the side. Shawn: 3. Carlton: 0.

"I sensed that I should be here for this." Shawn's voice was moody and soft, and most of it wasn't acting. "Something about the fountain water, Woody? What's up with the fountain water?"

"Right you are, my heroic, super-powered friend." Woody held up a phial of somewhat clear liquid.

"It looks like water," Carlton said, grumpier than usual.

Woody wasn't immune to the tensions that lovers' spats created, and Shawn and Carlton were in the middle of a doozy. "I see that the two of you are going through an ordeal, more personal than not—am I right? So I'll make this quick and let you get back to ironing out your issues."

Neither Carlton nor Shawn wanted to say anything.

"Does _everyone _know our business?"

By not acknowledging it, Shawn devalued Carlton's facetious question. Instead, perhaps to pique Lassie's aggravation, Shawn rooted around in his repertoire of expressions for one that was both accepting and hurtful. "Thanks, Woody. Lassie and I appreciate your understanding. Tell me, what do you do when your wife gets you to do something through an artful lie?"

Woody's smile was flat, humorless. Was that what'd happened? Leave it to Lassiter… But Woody supposed even psychics like Shawn couldn't see every wall they were about to hit. "If that happens, and it rarely has—though one time she got me to go to a nude beach in Greece, only it turned out to not be a nude beach—it was a lot like that episode of The Golden Girls when they found themselves—" Wait, what was Shawn's original question? "If she lies to me, I see how clever it was, appreciate her for that, then I make her mow the grass. She _hates _mowing the grass."

That was no good. Lassie already mowed the grass—and took out the garbage. Shawn supposed he could make Lassie do his own laundry for the next month. Lassie _hated _doing the laundry. Antithetically, Shawn loved it. Throw it in the washer, leave it. Throw it into the dryer, leave it. And everything came out so fluffy and warm and clean! No, Shawn would _miss _doing the laundry for four straight weeks. He could just make Lassie iron his shirts. That was a bigger torture. And they could bond whenever Shawn applied dollops of Neosporin to Lassie's tiny iron burns.

Carlton wouldn't let Shawn think about this longer than necessary. "What about the fountain water, Woody?"

"Oh! Right! Sorry, I just get so involved in the lives of my coworkers. It's like a reality TV show around here. So—fountain water. Right. Well, here's a big secret: It's _not _fountain water."

Shawn had anticipated this. "Is it seawater?"

"Winner, winner, chicken dinner, Mr. Spencer! It's just old-fashioned seawater, bits of kelp in it." He held up a plastic slide with the bits of kelp on it. "Kelp's native, from around here. So, when she drowned it was in shallow seawater somewhere along our wonderful coastline. But that's only one of three different ways she could've died."

It was worthwhile to see the looks on Lassiter's and Shawn's faces. Even Lassiter's ears seemed to droop right along with his jaw.

"What?"

"One of three?" repeated Shawn.

"One of three," Woody said for the second time. He showed examples on the body. "See these? Abrasions. I didn't find any debris in them, thanks to the water. I'm not sure what they're from. Could be wood. Could be rocks. But from the work of the Crime Scene Unit, it doesn't look like she was killed at the mansion."

CSU hadn't recovered any new blood at the house. Carlton's jaw tightened for a moment. "What's option three?"

"Oh," Woody had almost forgotten, "heart attack, actually. She had quite the weak ticker. She was in the process of having a fairly fatal heart attack when she was killed. I haven't heard from Officer Dobson yet about the identity of the woman. But she's between thirty and forty-five. No distinguishing marks. Probably has a kid or two out there."

Shawn's heart went cold. A mother. That figured.

Woody droned on to what he believed was a receptive audience. "At least one. Tailbone's had a minor fracture, usually a common affliction for women during the birth of live young. Only in humans, though. We're the only species illy adapted for giving birth. Well, the women of our species are. Men, definitely not. There is that story of the transgender man who gave birth to his own children. Absolutely fascinating."

Shawn wanted Woody to stop talking, but his thoughts toiled around seawater. "Anything else, Woody?"

"—she told me a tall tale once of a fisherman who'd given birth to baby lobsters but I—what? Oh, no, that's pretty much all that's interesting. Time of death is somewhere between five a.m. and seven a.m. this morning. And she did have a few body piercings. And I said 'did have' for a reason: they've closed up, and some have left scars. I didn't know what the scars were at first, because they were on her areolae and—wow!—who'd want piercings there, huh?" Woody rubbed his own nipples through his clothes, sympathetic to their sensitivity. "And also one in her upper pinna," he pinched his own upper right pinna to demonstrate, "and one in her nose. But, like I said, they've been closed up for years. Looks like someone in the post-Grunge era that might've come to regret her wild side."

"Post-Grunge era," Lassiter said, feeling around for conclusions, "that'd be the middle-late Nineties, wouldn't it? So she could be," he glanced at the handsome man next to him, "Shawn's age."

Woody calculated this. "I don't know. Can't say I know how old you are, Spencer the Younger." He threw his common affability into the statement.

It should be illegal for someone to be that cheery at work, Shawn thought. "I knew plenty of people around that time who got piercings and lived to regret it, sure."

Woody grimaced and patted his beloved nipples again. "Yeah, I can see why."

A fuzzy stare of Shawn's landed on the sheet covering the body. Without thinking, and moving too swiftly for Lassie or Woody to stop him, Shawn whipped back sheet's hem and revealed her face. He didn't know her. For a second, he wondered if it could've been an old classmate, if it was true that she was close to his age and, presumably, local. But he didn't know her. Somehow, that made it less weird. But he looked at her again, the shape of her chin, the roundness of her nose. She wasn't familiar, but pieces of her—a curve, a wrinkle in her bottom lip—were familiar. Shawn slid the sheet back into place.

"What is it?" Lassiter asked him.

"I don't know yet."

Phone ringing, Lassiter lifted it from hiding and gave the caller a grumpy greeting. Shawn heard a thanks, the brush of cloth as Carlton returned the phone to his pocket.

"Dobson. They think they've identified her."

Shawn noticed Carlton was far more perplexed and bothered than he'd been a minute ago. Might be someone they knew, after all. But, oddly, her name was not the first question Shawn asked. "How'd they I.D. her?"

"Her husband came into the shop and reported her missing. McNab and Kennedy are bringing him over now."

"They don't have to—"

"I know that," Carlton said, fuse to his short temper burning quickly. "I know he doesn't have to come in to see the body to identify it. But he _wants _to see it. Let's get out of here. I still have to take you home. And Woody's office is not exactly spacious."

"Yeah," Woody said, not offended by the observation. "I wish there was a way I could open it up a bit more in here. I'd love to a have a sofa, and possibly a wet bar. Well, thanks for dropping by, kids. The next time I see you, I hope you'll be in love again."

Carlton rubbed the annoyance out of his face, and Shawn's neck throbbed with the heat of humiliation and anguish.

"Oh, wait, that reminds me. I got you something." Back in his office, Woody found the present and returned to them promptly. He gave to Lassiter an elegantly wrapped box, flat and small. "Happy anniversary, you two crazy lovebirds."

No one had given them anything, which was probably Shawn's fault—at least as Shawn saw it. He'd been too busy insisting that everyone help pull off the Pony at the Station prank that he'd used up their time and their goodwill, and they had nothing left to think of something as trite as a present.

"Open it now," Woody urged, excited as a child. "If you don't like it, I can use it and I'll get you something else."

Carlton, without looking once at Shawn, ripped off the paper enough that he could wrestle the lid free. The bow, with its still-sticky tape, he pushed against Shawn's shoulder. It stayed until Shawn immediately removed it. It was going to be a long day. Just hoping it wasn't anything too embarrassing, Carlton found a gift certificate inside.

"One of those trail-riding places out north of Santa Ynez," Woody clarified, still thrilled to give them something they could use happily. "You know, where you rent the horses and you go around in the mountains for an hour or two. Thought you'd like it. Or—maybe you can take your own horses." He didn't really know how Shawn and Carlton's horse usage worked, knowing enough that they rode and liked horses. "Enjoy!"

On their way out, Carlton wanted to say something profound and meaningful to Shawn, but could think of nothing. Shawn wanted to continue saying nothing. It comforted him the most. None of that awkward need to apologize, say he was sorry for expecting too much…

Shawn paid attention again when Kennedy and McNab appeared, escorting their visitor. Shawn caught the man's eye, then looked away hastily. But he turn his head around for a final glance at the man. The whole exchange haunted Shawn.

In Lassiter's car, their present from Woody on his lap, Shawn went over what he'd learned of the victim. This was easier to assess than his antagonistic, seemingly unending episode with Lassie.

"I think I should make you iron your own shirts for a month," Shawn blurted out.

Carlton accepted this. "I can do that."

There—argument done.

And yet—no. Not really done.

Parked in the carport of home, the engine still running and their seat belts still fastened, Lassiter answered the phone, putting it on speaker.

"Hey, Detective, this is Officer Dobson."

"What is it?"

"It's about the Jane Doe. Her husband—uh, Zack Ingelow—identified her as his wife of twelve years, Anabel Ingelow."

"All right, thanks, Dobson. Gather the information you can and question him."

"You don't—" Dobson restarted, voice thinned by excitement and wonder. "You don't recognize the name. Detective, she was born Anabel Grayson. She's Officer Grayson's daughter."

Lassiter leaned into the seat, turning white. "Crap."


	7. Chapter 7

7.

With Lassiter up to his eyeballs in a strange case of death, with a cause of death not yet ruled, not yet declared an accident, natural, or homicide, Shawn endeavored to have a fun evening with Sean and Gus.

After dinner at one of of the finest burger joints in town, around for sixty years for one very good reason (that it was both hokey and delicious), they stopped at Platypus Park. The name of it nearly threw Sean into a tailspin. He'd been expecting some weird dessert place, where people munched on crickets dunked in dark chocolate or scorpions in lollipops. Instead, he found a nice cafe with an array of icy coffee beverages (all with a decaf alternative to the full-octane brew) and snacks that were handcrafted at the nearby Breezeway Bakery.

"We have to take you to the Bakery," Shawn said, the three hunkered into a booth in the back of the shop. "I know you didn't get around town much when you were living here before."

Sean was hesitant to call it living. He broke off a piece of cookie the size of a dinner plate. Too bad Jason was missing this.

"But the Breezeway Bakery is meant to be looked at," explained Gus, albeit vaguely. "It's pretty much a giant display of their history. They still use old techniques for baking many of their goods, and their recipes, as well as their ownership, has been handed down through four generations. It's an impressive place. One of those places the tourist guides don't tell you about, but that locals know and love." Gus was glad for their evening together, bugged by Shawn's dismissiveness of everything that wouldn't entertain their visitor. He tried again to talk to Shawn about the trunk. "I looked into the guy that Mrs. Glass mentioned to us, her groundskeeper, Homer."

Shawn was willing to listen, if not exactly prepared to leap into action. Things about the Hayworth mansion he'd seen that morning, and things about Anabel Ingelow's death were flashing bright red warning signals. "Stop eating your very tasty pastry a second and tell us."

"I can't help it," Gus said, pointing to the iced treat of gluttony on the plate, "this thing is delicious. Now I remember why you and I don't come here very often, Shawn." Showing good manners, Gus used a crinkly paper napkin to wipe the sides of his mouth, and had a sip of decaf iced latte before speaking on. "His name's Homer Bledsoe."

"Even the dude's name is creepy," Sean said.

Shawn agreed. "That it is, See-an. I recall the name Bledsoe when I was researching the Hayworths, fat lot of good it wound up doing me. Hospital bills. A funeral bill might've been cheaper."

Gus gaped. "That's _not _funny, Shawn."

"Yeah," Sean snapped, "far from funny."

"Never mind him," Gus told Laramie, "he gets morbid whenever one of his fights with Carlton lasts longer than six hours."

Shawn felt bad for the horrendous joke. Sorry he'd said it, he apologized, but said that Gus was right. He did get eerily morbid during one of his fights with Carlton. "What about Bledsoe? Is he a Bluebeard? Hiding wives in the sheds at the Hayworth mansion? No, wait, scratch that, there aren't any sheds at the mansion. There is a gatehouse, though."

"That's where his grandfather lived when he worked for the Hayworths. Homer's father, Herman, also worked for the Hayworths, but he lived off the estate. Homer Bledsoe worked briefly for the Country Club, Shawn."

This didn't surprise Shawn in the least. It probably should've. "Well, that would've been after the Hayworths' time."

"True, it was. I found an old article from the _Dispatch _about the thirtieth anniversary of the Club, and he was in the staff photo. Jefferson Roberts should know all about Bledsoe, or at least more than I do."

It was a name from Shawn's life that Sean didn't recognize. "Who's Jefferson Roberts?"

"He's my boss," Shawn answered. "Well, not exactly my boss."

"Yes, exactly your boss," corrected Gus. "He's your superior, and he has the ability to fire your ass."

"If he wants my ass to work harder, he should just ask it. Its review is coming up next month, and we're both very titillated."

Sean appreciated the humor. Gus—not so much.

Owning to a long day of work and finding a dead body, Gus wanted to get home early. Early for him was roughly eight-thirty. Time to hang out with Juliet and prepare his route for Friday. He and Juliet liked to have a fifteen-minute meditation every night before going to sleep, too, to help clear away the bothersome stuff of the day. Gus thought he might need to double-up his meditation time that evening.

Relieved that Shawn and Sean wanted to slip inside the house for a minute to say hello to Juliet, Gus conned Shawn into the kitchen so he could have a private word.

"You need to go home. Quit hanging around with Laramie and let the man rest already. And put Carlton's mind at ease. You're not really that angry at him. If you were, you'd be angry at me and Juliet, too. We helped."

Shawn despaired. He lacked the energy to spread around so much useless resentment. "I know you did, you and Juliet, not to mention my dad. Yeah, you all helped. Maybe I'm just angrier at Lassie for some other things, things that have no connection to the rest of you. Don't worry, I'll figure it out. And See-an and I are just going to do a couple more things before we call it quits for the night. How about you and I go back to the mansion in the morning, just the two of us?"

Gus was extremely displeased. "Why do you want to go back there?"

"I just want to check a couple of things out, that's all. Then we can find Homer Bledsoe and get him to let us see the trunk."

"You still want to find the trunk."

"Of course I do. You know how I feel about giving up on things."

"You used to be pretty good at it, giving up on things. I had to talk you into staying at high school four times, and in the end I think you really only stayed to ogle Abigail. And maybe Jamie Brothgate."

"The guy had some serious cheekbones. How did he not turn out to be a male model?" Shawn conceded, shrugging limply. "All right, so maybe we shouldn't look into the trunk-slash-sea chest thing anymore. Is that what you want me to say?"

Gus got confused. "Don't turn this around on me. That tactic won't work this time. I'll pick you up at nine o' clock. There'd better not be another dead body at the mansion, Shawn, that's all I'm saying."

That sentence took Shawn another ten minutes to fully unravel. _Another dead body_—as opposed to what, the single dead body they'd found that morning, or the one dead body they'd found that morning and the one almost-dead body of Shawn Spencer they'd found months ago?

Sean was aware that his friend's mind was elsewhere, occasionally in the present, but mostly in the past. Shawn lived more in the past than anyone he'd ever met. "Want to talk about it?"

"I appreciate it, but I don't think we really have the time."

"I don't know about you, but I've kinda got all night."

"That's true. And, for once, so do I."

Unsure about Shawn blowing off any attempt to reconcile with Carlton, Sean was willing to believe that Shawn would act responsibly. Sean had his own issues, too, unworthy things pressing against his conscience. "Well, let's go to my hotel. It's a suite, nice sitting room where we can dish our problems to one another. Just let me stop at the front desk and make a request."

Shawn guessed that See-an wanted to check to see if Jason had finally shown up and taken the key Sean had left for him. When See-an returned to Shawn by the elevators, in an alcove away from the main lobby, it was obvious that Jason hadn't put an appearance.

Through two bottles of wine and started on the third, Shawn's phone started chirping at him. He could hear it through the tingles in his brain and the soft drone of his own voice, the thrum of music in the background. Lassiter kept messaging him, and Shawn kept dismissing the messages. Then his dad messaged him. No messages from Gus, though. It was eleven-thirty and Gus was in bed.

Shawn wriggled out of the chair, his butt sore from having sat so long and his legs wobbly. "I really need to do something about this floor. It's moving again."

Sean laughed. "I hate it when that happens."

Stomping his foot seemed to make the dizzying carpet stand still. "Stop moving! I'm trying to walk on you!"

They were horribly drunk and they knew it. Shawn went to the suite's kitchenette for a glass of water, and used ice from the bucket that kept the wine cool—what were those wine bucket's called, were they just called wine buckets?—and made his ice water icier and cooler and waterier.

"I don't know what they call them," See-an was saying. Shawn had had no awareness that he'd been rambling about the wine bucket thingy out loud. How novel that he could talk and not be aware of it. He drank down the whole glass of water, but carried the glass of ice with him to the bedroom.

"I'm going to watch TV for a while," Shawn said. His shins hit the end of the mattress far sooner than he thought they would. He felt around in the darkened room for the nightstand, leaving his glass on it, and slowly dribbled to the bed. It smelled good—very clean. But he could only smell wine on his breath and the outdoors stuck to his clothes, at least until See-an wandered in. He tipped as he walked. Shawn thought he looked like a boat, and spoke aloud, too.

"I feel like a boat," Sean returned, palms reaching the end of the bed and his belly flattening to it. "Ah, that's no good at all. Still—moving—too—much. I thought you were going to watch TV."

Shawn realized he hadn't gotten around to turning the TV on. Slapping the remote, the giant flatscreen ignited. A late-night talk show was just ending. Was it that late already? He flipped through channels, stopping at a movie with a man and a woman kissing. "I know this movie—I think I know this movie." He watched, captivated by the kisses and the bucolic imagery, by the fact that he knew the movie but couldn't think of its name or who the man and woman were.

"I miss Jason," Sean muttered through a sigh. He finished off whatever number of gulps had been left in his oversized red-wine glass. His hand patted Shawn on the thigh, an effort to show their dilemmas of domestic discord. "You must miss Carlton, too."

It was far more pleasant to kiss someone he loved than to watch it on the screen. "Yeah," Shawn said, "yeah, I do."

-x-

Carlton didn't like the look of the hotel suite when he entered. It smelled like feet and old wine, for one thing. For another, there was no obvious sign of Shawn and Laramie. A very not-good thing. He'd already spent a semi-sleepless night wandering what in the hell had happened to Shawn, but stuck to the secret plan he'd executed to bring Sean and Jason together again. And, so far, he neglected to leap to monstrous conclusions. If Shawn was in that hotel room somewhere, there had to be an explanation for it.

Unfortunately, Jason Laramie's brain was not the methodical beast then lodged in Carlton Lassiter's skull. Jason had been dealing with jealousy and his spouse for many years. Sean never strayed, of course, but temptations were temptations for a reason, and for a daytime television idol, temptations were plentiful.

"I don't think we should—" Carlton's warning that they stay calm fell on deaf ears.

Jason sprang for the bedroom. Reluctantly, Carlton followed, and stopped dead right across the threshold. Even though he'd spotted Shawn and Laramie under the covers together, Carlton wasn't too anxious to think everything was how it appeared. But the four bottles of wine in the other room—they failed to make him feel optimistic about the whole thing. He could hear Jason gulping on unfinished sobs.

Jason faced Lassiter. "Get him out of here before I strangle him."

Carlton assumed Jason meant Shawn—his Shawn. Sucking in a breath to calm himself, and hoping to any and all deities of the pantheon that Shawn had pants on, Carlton gripped the end of the bed covers, hesitating a second. He looked at Shawn's profile, the good chin, heavy nose and lips parted in the relaxation of sleep. In another second, he'd know if it was the last time he'd be able to look at Shawn without feeling sick. If it was that bad, how were they going to get through it? But jumping to conclusions wouldn't solve anything. It didn't even help in murder investigations. Carlton made the covers fly back, off both Shawn and Sean. Neither woke. Across the comatose bodies, Carlton and Jason matched heartbroken gazes.

While Jason's hand came down sharply across Sean's cheek, Carlton turned away. He found the majority of Shawn's clothes haphazardly in one corner. And when he got back to the bed, Shawn was awake, bewildered but moving. Pounds of clothes landed on him, and a smelly sock fell across his nose. He brushed it off, sniveling. Carlton couldn't have planned it better if he'd tried.

"Get your clothes on and meet me in the other room," Carlton demanded through teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. "You have thirty seconds."

Shawn, shaking, raced into his jeans and shirt, shoving a sock in his pocket. Toward Jason and See-an, he gave the briefest, humblest look of apology, but it'd take more than that to fix this. He looked at Sean and knew they hadn't done anything. At least, he was pretty sure they hadn't done anything. It wasn't even required that he and Sean say that they would talk to one another later, because of course they would. They had to know exactly how much trouble their significant others were going to put them in. Shawn thought it'd be fair if he got tarred, feathered and quartered for it—if, in fact, he'd actually done anything. He wasn't sure. Not knowing terrified him. Was he capable of committing infidelity while inebriated? Was he really that stupidly cliché?

Carlton pushed and shoved Shawn out of the hotel room, and out of the hotel. To Shawn's surprise, halfway to Carlton's car he spotted Juliet. Evidently on her way to see what the hold-up had been, she halted at the sight of them. Shawn saw her disappointment, too. He got hit on the back of his head with Carlton's open hand, and forced forward a second later. Juliet grabbed hold of him to keep his momentum from carrying him too far. He was mightily hungover, head aching, stomach turning, vision blurry. He would've been perfectly happy kissing the parking lot's pebbly, dirty pavement.

"Take him and get him out of my sight," Carlton told O'Hara. "I don't even want to _look _at him right now!"

He got into his car and drove off, leaving them somewhat stranded at the China Tree Hotel on the north side of town. Juliet smacked Shawn on the face, lighter, more sympathetically than angrily. There were tears in her eyes.

"Please tell me that you didn't do anything that would make me ashamed of you."

"Don't I usually?"

"Shawn."

"I don't know what happened," he said, shaking his head, ashamed.

"I'm catching a very strong whiff of what happened."

Being nice about it hadn't gotten him anywhere. He could try being crass. "Well, it couldn't have been anything too serious because parts of me that are commonly sore after such things are not so sore today. That's a good sign."

"Ugh," Juliet grumbled, hiking her eyes to Heaven. But maybe that _was _a good thing, just a little more perverted than she was used to hearing from Shawn—ever—let alone at nine-thirty in the morning. "Gus is going to have kittens when I tell him. And I'm going to tell him—right now." She sent the call on her cell to her husband. "We found him. It doesn't look good. You'd better come to the China Tree and give us a ride." She hung up. "He's on his way. Shawn, you're in a serious dilemma. Carlton's never had trouble with you, ever, ever."

"Please don't start, Jules. Don't. If you do, and if you start crying, I'll start crying, and I really make it a rule not to cry because of something stupid I did that hurt a lot of people." It was a lie, of course. If he cried for anything, it'd be that.

Juliet took a bottle of water and some ibuprofen from her bag. "Take three of these and I'll give you the granola bar I've been carrying around for a month. I never did wind up eating it when I thought I was pregnant."

That was a fun-filled week, Shawn recalled, swallowing his angel's offered panacea. Juliet had thought that her constant hunger and need to snack was the result of hormones, and the second person growing inside of her. For a solid week she'd thought the doctor's test wrong, convinced that she was pregnant. Granted, none of them had quite believed it, least of all Gus. He knew perfectly well that his wife's appetite had come from two things, and one of them was less believable than the other. The first was a depression she'd slipped into while Shawn recuperated in the hospital. Depression did have a way of making people seek comfort through food, without realizing it. The second was Shawn's insistence that Juliet was being strongly aspected by a transiting Jupiter. While in the hospital, Shawn had done a lot of astrology work, and even predicted that Gus's company would trade in the Blueberry for something new.

If Juliet mentioning it was a way of drawing attention away from Shawn's plight, it'd worked for about five seconds. Shawn collapsed on the bench near the hotel's portico, face in his hands. Juliet sat with him, rubbing his back.

Shawn could just imagine how easily he had it compared to See-an's verbal row then taking place in room 312. "I really don't think we did anything," he told Juliet again, but regarded her hurtfully. "But I'm not positive we didn't. He's a very attractive man, and I'm an idiot. Ten times more an idiot when I drink. Remind me not to drink ever again. You'd think I'd learned that by now."

"You probably just got carried away. It's been a rough few days."

They sat in silence for a while, detached from the situation and each other, though Shawn couldn't think of anything else but what'd happened. Had that even really happened? It seemed so unlike him, and anything unlike him seemed impossible. But someone had once said that even the word 'impossible' implied possibility. He massaged his aching eyes, burning from lack of sleep, alcoholomania, and a need for a good cry. He hated breaking things and hurting people through his own stupidity.


	8. Chapter 8

A reader has a chance when matching his wits with a rationalistic detective,  
but if he must compete with the world of spirits  
and go chasing about the fourth dimension of metaphysics,  
he is defeated _ab initio_.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

8.

Gus arrived five minutes later. Since Juliet didn't have to be at work until eleven, the three of them went to Platypus Park. Gus was thick with the fumes of anger. Juliet was understanding but Shawn could tell she didn't know how to fix this for him, or how to make Gus's anger fade.

At the counter, a quiet Gus put in the order for the three of them. He took a ten dollar bill from his wallet, separate from the debit card he was using to foot the bill. He dropped the ten bucks in the tip jar and explained his action to Cheryl, the barista. "I ordered an iced latte, _extra_ ice, with an extra shot of espresso," he held up the drink, "and I want you to forgive me for the mess I'm about to make you clean up. But, believe me, it's necessary."

Gus whipped around, dumping the entire contents of the extra-shot latte down Shawn's front, shirt to trousers, even some dribbles on the top of his head. It went _everywhere_. What didn't get soaked into Shawn's clothes puddled at his feet. Gus got splashed, but nothing he couldn't deal with. Juliet had been out of the way, getting napkins for their glazed donuts. She glared at Gus, more surprised by his action than the way Shawn looked—and smelled.

"BURTON GUSTER!"

Gus, quite sane and reasonable, put the emptied latte glass back on the counter. Cheryl was blank-faced as he spoke to her. "Thanks, and I'm sorry about the mess."

Shawn took the napkins from Juliet. He wiped off his face and part of his neck. When he could open his eyes, he almost wished they'd been frozen shut. Gus was smug and satisfied by his decision to seek revenge in a comical, very _wet _way. Juliet was too astonished to reprimand him. Shawn almost wondered if he'd deserved it.

Dismayed, Juliet took their plate of goods back to Cheryl. "Can you wrap these up for us? I think it's better if we just go."

Cheryl and her helper had the food and drinks transferred to takeaway in record time. Gus shoved Shawn toward the door, again apologizing to Cheryl as he went. Shawn wasn't entirely prepared to let Gus get away with it.

"I'm feeling kinda queasy," said Shawn as they neared the Strawberry, "and I think I'd better lie down in the back of your car, Gus—belly first."

"You try it, and I throw you back at Lassiter right now. Besides, you're five-ten and you can't possibly fold those long legs of yours up to even lie belly-first in the back seat."

"Want me to try? I'm willing to try. And I'm five-eleven, thank you."

Gus's eyelids narrowed, almost ready to give up the challenge. But he'd been through enough that morning—all of them had. "Just get in the car, Shawn."

Juliet was dropped at the station, Gus taking Shawn to their place. The mailbox out front still said "O'Hara &amp; Guster," and after two years it was pretty obvious that Juliet was going to keep her last name. The house reeked of both their preferred design styles, though, very arid, very modern. Lots of stonework and glass tiles, lots of shiny floors and simple window treatments. It lacked the coziness of Shawn and Carlton's house—but there was nothing as sweet as home, anyway.

"You're an idiot," Gus said to Shawn as soon as they were in Gus and Juliet's bedroom. It was ice blue and white, with splashes of mauve and super-pale green. It was beautiful but kind of cold. The his and hers walk-in closets, though, now those were pretty priceless. Gus's was still fuller than Juliet's, and it stank of cedar and shoes. Gus fumbled through clothes, hoping to find the tackiest, ugliest shirt in his collection to make Shawn put on that day, and his tightest trousers. Clothes Shawn wouldn't be caught dead wearing, and that was the point. "You should've never gone to Sean's hotel room. What were you thinking?"

Shawn's chest swelled with pain, Gus's voice hitting the point where it broke with emotion. "I was thinking that I'd just had a fight with Carlton, and—I was angry. About everything."

"You know what this reminds me of, don't you?"

"Sure, I do, Gus: 1997."

"July of 1997, that is correct, when you went on a three-day bender with Dominic Hastings and Dennis, and the three of you nearly got arrested for urinating on a public bench."

"Public lewdness, Gus. I don't think there's anything in the criminal code that specifies peeing on a park bench. Look, Gus—"

"No, Shawn, you look!" Gus crammed clothes against Shawn, his eyes still smarting and burning. "You listen to me. You apologize to Lassiter, and you apologize good and you apologize sincerely. Whether you did anything with someone else's husband is not really what disappoints me. You—you disappoint me. You knew you weren't so angry at Carlton that you'd go out of your way to cause trouble, just like you did in 1997. And I am not going to be the mediator in this. I am not your middleman. You and Carlton have had your issues, most of them in the last eight months, since you came out of the hospital. If you love him, fix it. If you don't love him, then get the hell out of Santa Barbara until you figure out what you do want. Because you've got it all here. Don't ruin it if you still want it." Gus went as serene as he could, knowing he'd thrown into Shawn as much terror as he could. "Now, take a shower and put these clothes on. I'll make some real breakfast to go with our donuts."

Shawn couldn't find his voice to thank Gus for all he was doing and all he'd done.

In the big guest bathroom, Shawn searched his naked form for any sign that he'd engaged in something illicit the night before. Pleasantly, nothing caught his attention. Aside from the flagrant pains common with his hangovers, and his rapid mind that suggested he'd slept poorly, though couldn't recall nightmares or waking often, he was quite sure he and See-an had only removed one another's clothes and flung them to the far corners of the bedroom. He used to enjoy doing that with Lassie.

Out of the shower and in Gus's clothing of torture (knowing perfectly well what Gus was doing), Shawn realized he'd left the hotel room without his phone. He felt severely disconnected from everyone without it, and even thought of it as the modern day security blanket for grownups. What if he needed it?

Gus dismissed the suggestion that they swing by the hotel and pick it up. "It'd do you good to live without it for a few hours. I've got my phone, and I'm not leaving your sight until I figure out what to do with you."

"I should talk to Sean and Jason."

"And say what?"

"That we didn't do anything, obviously."

"I'm sure Sean's saying that enough for the both of you. Eat your food."

Gus had made the great comfort food anyone could ask for at breakfast: homemade waffles. Shawn ate his a half at a time, first with strawberry jam, then one with blueberry, and finally a whole one with syrup. He was so stuffed he didn't have room for his donut from Platypus Park.

With his hands at his belly and lounging in the big chair where Juliet usually browsed books and magazines, Shawn stared at the ceiling to better focus his thoughts.

"I still want to find Homer and talk to him about the trunk. And I still want to go back to the mansion. I can go by myself, though. You probably have actual work to do."

"I'm not letting you go to that mansion by yourself. What kind of friend do you think I am?"

"One that makes me wear trousers so tight I feel like Tanner Cohen in _Were the World Mine_. Without the magic pansy that makes everyone gay, more's the pity. That's the kind of friend you are."

"I don't see anything wrong with those trousers. They fit you perfectly fine," Gus said, clearly stretching the truth. They were very tight at the waist and crotch. "Shows off what got you in trouble," quipped Gus.

"Maybe if I'd had these pants on, I would've done what you and everyone else thinks I did. I mean, who could resist this?" Shawn ogled the area of his crotch, trying to imagine that it was something so fetching a man would commit adultery for it. But it really wasn't that worthwhile. It wasn't even worth a thought of _maybe_ committing adultery. Again, he was sure that he and Sean had passed out before they'd done anything. It didn't make them any less blameworthy, though, not really. It was the thought that counted. Especially nasty drunk thoughts. Their consequences were far more devastating.

During the drive, Gus repented his decision to take Shawn back to the mansion. "What am I doing? I must be out of my mind, going back to that place. You should be out of your mind, too, Shawn, wanting to go back there."

"If I've gone out of my mind, it's because these pants have cut off circulation to every important part of my body. There's just something at that mansion that didn't add up."

"What could that be? The freaky pigeons and the caca all over the place?"

Shawn nearly snickered at Gus's use of the word 'caca.' "I'll tell you when we get there, in case I'm wrong."

"Yeah, and how often are you wrong?"

"You think I'm wrong about what See-an and I did last night."

Gus flung his eyes back to the road, stopped at a traffic light. He was willing to believe that Shawn and Sean hadn't engaged in sexual activity the night before, but he knew, and Shawn knew, that what'd happened was an obvious sign of _intent_. Again, he wasn't sure that Carlton would ever forgive Shawn. He wasn't even sure if Jason could forgive _his _Sean. He didn't know what he'd do if he'd found Juliet in such a compromising way, or if he'd found himself the way Shawn had that morning. They'd had enough trouble the last time they'd quaffed more than their fair share of liquor.

Shawn massaged his hands in front of him, still tense about what'd happened. His stomach still churned, though the churns had been softened by Gus's most excellent waffles. "I didn't imagine that I'd hurt so many people I cared about. It's worse than 1997, Gus. That'd happened because I'd been dumped by somebody, not because—"

"Wait, that happened because you were dumped? You weren't even going out with anybody. Oh, no, no-no-no-no, don't tell me that you were carrying on a secret love affair when you were twenty-one, Shawn, just don't! I can't handle any more betrayals this morning, I can't! I admit that I can't! You! Dating someone back then, puh! Who was this person? Do I know her—or him? Did Dennis? Did Dominic? I know I was away most of that year at school, but I that was the summer I came home, and if you'd been with someone I would've known!"

"Your light's green. Go, before the lady behind you slams her car horn up your—"

"I can't believe this is happening," Gus said, choked and gunning the Strawberry as fast as its engine would go.

"You're gonna blow your gasket."

"I am not!"

"Should I get out and push?" joked Shawn, hoping to insert staid humor into the catastrophic morning. "Might help."

Gus hardly paid attention. "You really had an affair that you didn't tell me about?"

"Given today's whole unsavory situation and everything, I'd appreciate it if you kindly stopped using the word 'affair' every five seconds!" Shawn's voice crescendoed at the end. This was really getting to him, and how much of it could he take? He'd been sorry since Lassie woke him up that morning.

"Affair! Affair! Affair! You had an affair!"

"I was twenty-one, and he wasn't married and neither was I. Oh, boy, was I so not married. Imagine being married at twenty-one."

"I think Lassiter got married when he was twenty-one."

"That was, like, a whole generation ago, though," Shawn said, again trying to bring them some levity.

"You just called your boyfriend, if he's still that, old."

Shawn wondered if he should just stop talking. Really. Just stop talking. He signed "FINE!" to Gus before staring out the window. At least it was a gorgeous day, and a man could have a broken heart on a day with warmth, a kind breeze and sunshine. He signed his thoughts, Gus glancing at him, trying to interpret with his rudimentary ASL skills. One of the doctor's on his route was deaf, and Shawn had known it most of his adult life. He'd never used it as much as he had since getting out of the hospital, a fellow patient there someone he could talk to easily in ASL.

"I need to talk to Carlton," Shawn signed. Sometimes signing caused his emotions to reach the surface more than the mask required to speak. "I broke his heart and I love him. I'm an idiot."

This wasn't a literal interpretation of Shawn's signs, only the modified English translation.

"No kidding," Gus said. "And quit signing. You can talk. I promise I won't yell at you anymore—or at least for the next hour or however long you want to wander around this glorified and spooky pit of doom."

The cops had gone, though the tape remained around the fountain area when Gus and Shawn snuck around the side of the house for a look. Well, more Shawn than Gus. He really wanted to have nothing to do with that house. Prior to Shawn's being shot there, and Anabel Ingelow's death, Gus fancied that many of the Hayworths must've died within those walls, too. If he got to thinking about it too much, the place was too eerie for any sane man to want to be there twice in as many days.

There was no sign of the volunteer groundskeeper. There was no sign of any living creature but the plume of pigeons that took flight at their entrance. Shawn left the front door open, trying to bring enough light into the place to get a look at the staircase. He'd already seen what he'd wanted out back. He took a couple of pictures with Gus's phone, failing to answer Gus's queries regarding _what _he was taking pictures of. It looked like a lot of dirt and cobwebs to Gus. Pigeons, too. Mustn't forget them.

Between the pigeons' trilled coos and their footsteps across creaking floorboards, Shawn and Gus heard what sounded very much like a squeaky door opening—and nearby, too. Automatically, Shawn pitched his hand over Gus's mouth to keep the scream from cutting the silence. Gus's scream muffled in his throat, ending when he ripped Shawn's hand from him. But Shawn lifted a finger, asking him to keep still and quiet. Shawn listened. Gus couldn't help but listen.

"It's a ghost of the Hayworths," whispered Gus, trying to tug Shawn toward the open door. "Let's get out of here before they—"

He froze. At the far end of the house, far across the foyer and down the wide hall, a door opened. Light was in the room it opened to. Standing against the light, a small, dark, solid figure. Gus was too scared to scream.

"Wait," Shawn hissed. "Just wait a second. It's not a ghost."

"How do you know? Looks like an elemental to me."

"Shh-shhht!"

Shawn took a careful step away from Gus and into the openness of the foyer, that much closer to the elemental-like figure eighty feet away. God, that house was ridiculously enormous. It made Shawn feel small, and small figures eighty feet away seemed gigantic when surrounded by a great black nothing, nothing to offer the comparisons of height or dimension.

"Hi—my name's Shawn Spencer." So far, so good. The thing didn't move. "This is my associate, Plumes Del Zotto. We're consultants for the Santa Barbara Police Department. Are you related to the Hayworths? Is that why you're here?"

Without much light, Shawn couldn't tell if his voice had any reaction on the being, be it terrestrial or paranormal. If the Hayworths were stalking Shawn Spencer, he had a feeling they wouldn't choose to appear to him in such a way.

The closer he got to the thing, the more it gained the shape of an ordinary human. It had narrow shoulders and long, thin arms, a short torso and long legs. It was like a mini-Shawn. The thought gave grownup Shawn significant pause before he continued to inch forward.

"Shawn," Gus hollered, "I really think this is a bad idea."

"Well, you know how I feel about bad ideas, Gus. Somehow I wind up doing them anyway."

Gus sighed, frustrated. He'd walked right into that one.

"I think it's a child," Shawn finally said. He was twenty-five feet from the silhouette. He had the bright idea to use Gus's phone to light up his face. And still the kid didn't move. "I'm Shawn Spencer," he repeated, in case the kid was too petrified to listen. "I work for the SBPD. Who are you? Are you lost? I can help."

Shawn flipped the phone around to glow on the kid—and had an image of him only for a millisecond. The kid took off through the lit room in the back of the house.

"Gus! Gus! He's going out back! Gus!"

Shawn yelled as he chased the kid. He didn't believe the kid had been up to something bad there at the mansion—he would've taken off if he had instead of spying on them. Shawn had a feeling the kid had heard them and had come to investigate, and maybe needed an adult's help getting back where he belonged. The mansion was used for friends, young and old, to play mean pranks on one another.

He chased the dark-haired mite through the hauntingly empty kitchen, down a hallway with peeling wallpaper, into a back room full of windows and walls shedding coats of paint. His boots crunched over everything on the floor that he couldn't leap over, and the kid did the same thing. But he was a smidgen more savvy and nimble than Shawn, dodging through rotting furniture and cramming himself through a narrow passage between broken window frames. Shawn winced in the anticipation that the kid's fragile skin would snag on a wicked glass edge, but it didn't. When the kid reached the back patio, Shawn tried to kick the french doors open—but by then his heart flew to his throat, hearing a cracked, mutated scream.

Shawn managed to shoulder the doors apart, decaying wood finally giving way. He stomped across the patio, coming to a halt at the sight of Gus winching the collar of a boy. Another man stood nearby, impressive and dark and frightening, with a grizzled beard, a beetling brow, and a hump on his back. The kid struggled, but Gus held him tight. But even Gus looked frightened of the hump-back.

"Shawn, this is Homer Bledsoe. And I don't know who this is. Who are you? Speak up, kid. We work for the police department. We can get you back where you're supposed to be."

The kid struggled, near to tears. Shawn hated to watch, wishing he could do something.

"He can't hear you," Bledsoe's booming bass, old and crackly, flared out against the kid's odd hollers and grunts. "Deaf as a fish, that one. Watch."

He grabbed a shovel out of his wheelbarrow and clanked it against the patio stones. The kid didn't react.

Shawn and Gus shared a meaningful and shocked look. Gus thought Shawn's expression of wonder would make him burst into tears. He said something cool to keep them from thinking too much all at once. After all, Shawn wasn't really psychic, but he did create coincidences. "You're always at the right place at the right time."

"Tell that to Sean and Jason," Shawn grumbled, kneeling in front of the boy who'd finally stopped struggling against the grip of Gus's cramped hand. For the first time in almost a year, Shawn was going to be absolutely useful—and proud of himself. He inhaled deeply, then started to sign. When he'd said his name, he raised his gaze to Gus. "Let him go. It's all right. He won't run off now."

"Who is he?" Gus asked, after releasing the kid. Shawn was right, he didn't run off. He watched Shawn ask the kid for a name, but couldn't follow the kid's rapid signing in return. But he sure heard Shawn's breath catch in the back of the throat. "What?"

"We need to get him to the SBPD. He's Anabel Ingelow's son."


	9. Chapter 9

A detective novel should contain no long descriptive passages,  
no literary dallying with side-issues,  
no subtly worked-out character analyses,  
no "atmospheric" preoccupations.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

9.

Shawn felt a lot like the boy upon entering the SBPD, full of anticipation and fright, cartoonish question marks practically popping over his head. Shawn didn't want to be there, either, didn't want to face Lassiter or any other judgmental glares tossed his way. Most especially from his dad.

Dad, it turned out, was the least judgmental of all, just like he'd been earlier in the video room. By the time they were gathered in the chief's office, a stiffly professional Lassiter among them, Henry Spencer was far too pleased to see Shawn's language obsessions being so useful to everyone. It was hard not to stand there refulgent with pride. Shawn had still done a couple of stupid things that morning, and Henry couldn't forget it—no more than Lassiter could.

Vick feared a holler-fest. Tensions were running dangerously high in her office. If they didn't need Shawn to interpret little Ingelow's signing, Vick would've asked him to leave. And Lassiter had to stay; it was his case. O'Hara was there, more as a mediator than anything; it wasn't her case after Lassiter had decided to bring in McNab, also in the room and providing only the information she asked for. Gus was there, thankfully quiet. Henry, too, stood by in the mediator role. Once again, it was chiefly Lassiter and Shawn doing the talking, too much of it all at once, and too loudly. Wow, just like old times.

"I think we should arrest Spencer on grounds of _trespassing_," Lassiter said, throwing the word at Shawn. "He shouldn't have been at the mansion and he knows it."

Vick threw him an exasperated stare. "Carlton, he's an SBPD consultant. He's been one for eight years. You know how all of this plays out."

Gus looked impressed with Vick whipping Lassiter into place. "Nice," he murmured for Juliet. She strongly agreed it'd been well-played by Vick. The two executed a clandestine fist bump.

Carlton looked very much like he'd just been smacked. But he was undaunted. If he had to look at Shawn another second, his heart might split into little tiny pieces, and he was going to make Shawn pick them up one by one if it took a thousand years. "Chief, I request that Spencer be removed from this case." He succeeded in keeping the emotional warp out of his voice.

"Your request is noted, Detective, and denied."

"Come on, Chief! He has too strong a connection to that house, those people—"

"Those people that, so far, don't seem to have any connection to Anabel Ingelow's—" Vick stopped, not sure if she could talk like that in front of the boy. "Are you sure he can't hear us?" she asked Shawn.

"Judging by the fact that he doesn't even have any hearing aids, I'm pretty sure he's completely deaf. If you want my two cents, Chief, I'd be happy to remove myself from this case. I was investigating something _completely not involved_ with the Hayworths—at lest I thought it wasn't involved—"

"I told you," Carlton broke in, "I didn't _know _Mrs. Glass' groundskeeper had a connection to the Hayworths, and I was sorry about that! You don't know _how _sorry I am now!"

"Not as sorry as I am!" Shawn screamed back. Emotionally reset, unable to look at Carlton a second longer, Shawn returned to the chief. "Where's Hank's dad, anyway? Someone needs to tell him about his mom. I'd rather it be his dad."

Vick's brow wrinkled. "Hank?" She flipped the corner of a paper on her desk. "The Ingelow's boy is named," a pause, knowing that as soon as she read it, Shawn would go nuts, "um, Sheridan. His name's Sheridan. Henry is his middle name."

Shawn would've gone by his middle name, too, if his name had been Sheridan. Heck, Henry wasn't that much better. "Dad, quit looking so smug. It's not like they named him after you or something."

Henry's lopsided shrug just about dared Shawn to prove that the Ingelow's _hadn't_ named Sheridan after Henry Spencer.

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, Chief," continued Shawn, eager to get out of there, and Zack really needed to tell Hank about his mom. "He signed Hank when I met him, and so he's Hank to himself if no one else. Now, where's Zack Ingelow?"

The chief's inability to keep her eyes on his changed Shawn's whole outlook.

"You arrested him," he deduced. "I didn't see that coming. It's really hard to concentrate on all the psychic vibrations right now. Why has Zack Ingelow been arrested?"

"Various reasons, Shawn, and I assure you that we had no choice."

Shawn let Vick be intentionally vague. Since she wasn't quite convinced that Shawn would maintain an interest in the case, or that she could put up with a bickering couple working the same case, she reserved the right to withhold information.

"Children's Services will be here within the hour—as soon as I tell them to get down here ASAP," Karen went on, feeling the potent stress of her job. "If you don't want to tell Hank yourself, Shawn, wait until a professional social worker gets here."

What were they supposed to do until then?

Shawn took Hank into his favorite place, the video room. From Shawn's secret storage bin, card games and sudoku puzzles miraculously appeared. Hank did stare at Shawn as if he was some kind of wondrous magician. They played Crazy Eights without pausing to talk. Once Shawn had explained that someone from Children's Services was coming, Hank seemed more depressed, naturally so. Shawn's mood reflected his inner conflicts, but he tried to create a mellow if not upbeat atmosphere for Hank's sake. Hank never asked a single question about his parents, where they were or what'd happened to them. Shawn had a terrible feeling about it, and he was sure he wasn't the only one in the precinct to harbor that troubling sensation.

Gus and Juliet soared into the room, bringing with them healthy food and an unconvincing amiability.

"Guys, lay off the false cheeriness, would you? He's deaf, not an idiot," Shawn told them, then bit into his apple. He munched a moment. "Jules, what's really going on around here? Vick is hesitant to tell me anything, and that's perfectly fine. She has every right to hesitate, considering Lassie _hates _me right now. Actually, I hate me, too, so there's that."

Juliet didn't know what would happen to Shawn and Carlton. Like with everything, she and Gus had prepared for the worst but hoped for the best. If it turned out to be the worst, it was going to be awkward. "Nothing much. There aren't any real leads aside from Zack Ingelow. He's the only other one in town who knows that Anabel's here—was here. And no one's really sure _why _she was in town, anyway. There's not even much speculation as to why they're in town. And they didn't arrive at the same time. Anabel was here first. Zack followed her into Santa Barbara last night. He wanted to talk to her. He said she'd left, with Sheridan—sorry, Hank—and they were having a fight. As the theme goes."

"But Grayson doesn't even live here anymore," said Shawn. "She moved back to Missouri or wherever."

"Columbia, Missouri," Gus said. "She was from there originally and went back when Anabel was thirteen."

Well, to Shawn, that didn't seem important. None of it seemed important. But he did shoot up from his seat and wipe his mouth of apple juices. "I gotta see Vick for a second. Watch Hank, will you?"

He signed to Hank that he'd be right back, that he should keep an eye on Gus and Juliet because they were silly. The kid was pleased enough to keep eating his veggie sub, undisturbed by everything around him. Sheridan Henry Ingelow—what a name! What were his parents thinking? If he ever got a chance to talk to Zack Ingelow, maybe he'd ask.

In Vick's office, he was pleased to find her alone. With Lassiter's desk providing a decent view of what went on there beyond the mini-blinds, Shawn felt dreadful.

"Shut the door, Spencer, I want a word with you."

Doing as he'd been ordered, Shawn sighed. The problem with having your family centered around the police department was—was _having your family centered around the police department_. "I'm totally willing to hear you out on anything, Chief—Chief Karen Cleopatra Vick—" he was still pretending he didn't know her middle name "but just let me ask something first, okay?"

She leaned into her squashy desk chair, ready to listen, though keeping her right to refute. "Go on, Mr. Spencer."

"I assume that you've talked to the Columbia police already, and that they're sending a team over to investigate the Ingelow residence."

"Once again, your astuteness and almost-psychicness is impressive. Go on."

"I'd like it if the police took some photos of the boy's room—Hank's room."

For any number of reasons, Vick was surprised by the request. "I've already asked them to take photos of all the rooms. But if you want to look at those specifically, I will tell you when they arrive. Is that all?"

"Yes," he nodded, "that's all. And thanks." Aware that he was probably in for a stern lecture, Shawn took the guest chair in front of the desk and tried to get comfortable. He kept twitching—crossing arms, crossing legs, uncrossing everything; arms on the rests, off the rests, crossed again.

Vick reached the pith of the ordeal. "You really, really screwed up."

Shawn blew out a breath, mostly through his nose. Already, his face was heating up and he was sad, angry and hurt all over again. "It's kind and heartwarming of you to bring it to my attention. I feel like we're in the middle of an after-school special. And yes, yes I did screw up. There's still no proof that anything actually happened—except for the _intent _that something was about to happen."

"I wasn't looking for details, Shawn. And I don't make it a habit to root around in the private affairs—sorry—" she winced at her choice of words, "in the private _lives_ of my fellow officers. I used to have a rule about officers involved with one another."

"Yeah, I remember," Shawn said, subdued.

"But since it's you, and you are ten times more aware of your mistakes than others, and I happen to think that our head detective is one of the best in the state, I need the two of you to figure out how to work together again because this police department cannot function without either of you."

Shawn was both flattered and belittled. About usual when being ripped apart by Chief Vick. "Understood, Chief," he said in a tone that held every ounce of respect and maturity. He went on, not sure why. "If there was just some way I could go back and do _nothing _over again, I would. Hurting Lassie was the last thing I ever wanted to do in my life. Even if I was angry at him about the trunk thing, the Bledsoe and Hayworth thing, and maybe that led to me drinking a little more—a lot more—than I should've. I wasn't so angry that I'd hurt him like that. It's been rough since I got out of the hospital."

"He was practically a stark-raving lunatic when that happened, you know," Vick said, hoping it helped. "He probably never told you how angry it'd made him. He resented himself because he'd failed to protect you. I guess he knew you were going there, but he didn't think there'd be anyone waiting to shoot you."

Shawn hadn't heard that side of it before, not even the one time he and Carlton had gone to a therapy session. "I need to mull over this," he admitted, rising. "Now that I feel significantly flogged and oddly cleansed spiritually, Chief, may I be dismissed?"

Vick's nod was minimal. She stopped him before he reached the door. "Shawn, you're a lot smarter than this. We know your stupidity is just a show you put on to keep yourself from being characterized as intelligent, since, for whatever reason, that scares you. But it's way too late now to start believing your own bullshit."

"Well said, Karen." He meant it, too. For a moment, he wondered if he'd gone deaf, catching the chief dropping some vulgar slang. Classy.

On the way back to the video room, he avoided glancing at Lassiter's desk. When he did, unable to stop himself, he saw it was empty. Ahead of the video room, Officer Tyas, one of the IT crew, cut Shawn off. Tyas gave Shawn a flash drive. "Probably seems like the worst time to give it to you, too. But I figured you'd want to have it." Tyas tore off to avoid hearing anything from Shawn.

Shawn's palm tightened around the flash drive, knowing it held the video of his and Octavia's splendid arrival into the station two days ago. And look what'd happened since then!

"Will you take this?" He gave the drive to Gus. "I'd put it in my pocket, but I can barely fit my butt in these pants. If you make me wear these again, Gus, I'm going shopping for a dance belt and you'll be helping me with my contemporary solo. Hank behave all right? He eats slow."

"That he does. I think he enjoys tasting food more than most of us." Gus put the flash drive in his pocket. "What's on that drive, anyway?"

"My stunt from the other day," was Shawn's bleak response. Returned to his seat, Shawn signed to Hank, "Did they behave all right?"

Hank smiled and nodded. "Where's Carlton?"

"Don't know," Shawn replied. "Why?"

"Just wondering."

Juliet found the whole thing fascinating, and could've sat there for hours watching Shawn and Hank Ingelow sign. "Unfortunately, I can't stay. Have my own work piling up, even as we speak. Shawn, let me know what Children's Services has to say."

"I will," he said, signing simultaneously. It quickly became involuntary, talking and signing at the same time. It was also difficult, since the two languages didn't often have a direct linguistic overlap. He and Hank waved Juliet on her way.

Gus stayed as long as he could, beginning to wonder if Children's Services was ever going to show up. They were notorious for being late, and that notoriety was dismally highlighted that afternoon. He waited until twelve-thirty, when it became imperative that he finish up his route for the day. It was difficult leaving Shawn in the middle of everything.

"You sure you'll be all right?"

"I can handle the next couple of hours. I don't know after that, though. Might be just _slightly_ more challenging. And I so used to thrive on challenges. These pants are adding to it, too."

"You can always stay with me and Juliet—if Carlton throws you out."

"Thanks for that awesome boon of support, buddy. I've already thought of that as a possibility. A very real one." Shawn had thought of it, and it scared him. He felt like he and Lassie had built a whole life around one another, intentionally or unintentionally, and it was insane to sit by and watch that decompose. There had to be a way to fix everything, or at least patch it together long enough that it could start healing itself.

Shawn patted Gus when his oldest and dearest friend hugged him from the side. Hank hugged Shawn and Gus, too, not entirely sure of the reasons, but he could read Shawn's expression of sadness.

Kennedy came into the video room so soon after Gus had left it that Shawn wandered if Gus had come back. Kennedy hailed Shawn for another visit to the chief's office. This time, though, he was asked to bring "the Ingelow kid" and anything of his that was lying around. It wasn't the first time Shawn's attention had been drawn to Hank's missing paraphernalia. A peculiarity, but probably one with a sound explanation.

In the chief's office, Shawn was rambunctiously greeted by friendly social worker Kat, to whom Shawn was no stranger. He'd solved two cases for Kat in the last seven years, and they bumped into one another at the weirdest times—the grocery store, the beach, the park, the Ice Cream Hut, the police station where the stomping grounds of their jobs collided.

"Shawn!" cried Kat. "Shawn Spencer, that _is _you! How are you?" Kat's bosom squished against Shawn as the two of them hugged—well, as Kat did most of the hugging. Shawn felt comfortably rolled up in a vanilla-scented fluff of chocolatey dough, so delightfully ample was Kat. And taller than him by two inches. Her kinky black hair had not been tamed by the town's late infestation of dry air, but puffed out all over and below her big shoulders. Her makeup, expertly applied, brought out her dark eyes and lovely bow-shaped mouth. She looked as pretty and cheerful as she did when Shawn had gone to her wedding three months ago. With Lassiter. It'd been Carlton's first lesbian wedding and he'd found it both thrilling and terrifying—probably because he found Kat's larger-than-life personality equally thrilling and terrifying.

Kat stooped to be eye-level with the boy. "So this is Hank Ingelow, huh?" She waved hello, the extent of her ASL. She turned her attention back to Shawn. "Did anyone tell him about his mom yet?"

Vick shook her head. "Not yet."

"I'll work on it," Shawn said, taking the responsibility—though, if his hunches were correct, he wouldn't have to tell Hank anything.

Kat wished he knew what went on in the boy's head. "Is he doing all right, Shawn, and communicating well?"

"He seems to be okay. He was hungry. We just gave him some lunch." Shawn was bugged by Children's Services taking Hank and putting him temporary care. He guessed there weren't too many families equipped to handle a deaf child. With Nina Grayson, Hank's grandmother, still unaccounted for, Hank had to be under someone's guardianship. Hank must've sensed Shawn's waffling, since he sidled closer to Shawn and seemed to cling to his etheric energy as if for dear life.

"Well, you've made yourself a friend," Kat said, observant and shrewd. "Good. If you'll just sign a couple of things, Shawn, I'll get out of your hair."

An eruption of noise from everyone else in the room, Vick, Henry and, having snuck in a second ago, Lassiter, stopped Kat dead in her tracks. She noted the enormous uprising against her suggestion—and laughed at it.

"All right, well, I guess I got the wrong idea. Wouldn't be the first time." She'd noted that the only one who hadn't protested the idea was Shawn. That spoke very large volumes, larger than that of his naysayers. "Honestly, everybody, we don't have the room for him with a family capable of handling a deaf child in a comfortable environment. We only have one family that can take a deaf child, and they're already watching three of our kids. It's Shawn or it's a place that won't be able to accommodate him. Believe me, I know how bad that can be on a kid who's going through a lot. The more comfortable he is, the better off he'll be."

Hank tugged severely at Shawn's wrist, drawing his attention. Shawn interpreted what he'd been told. "He said he wants to stay with me."

"Now wait a second!" Lassiter stepped forward. With lots of eyes on him, what was he supposed to do? If he didn't agree, he'd be the bad guy. "It's not that I don't want any child to suffer, Kat, it's just—Shawn and I are having some problems," he heard Henry's derisive snort, "and I don't know that having anyone else around is a good idea."

"Good, this'll distract you and bring the two of you together again," Kat joked—sort of. "Really, Carlton, I'd rather see him with any family that can sign, as long as they have a roof and food and a place for Hank to sleep, than see him with a family that can't communicate with him except with a dry erase board and magnetic poetry. Be a sweetheart," Kat said, trying to charm Carlton into acceptance, "and put your signature on the papers."

Shawn didn't need sign language, intuition or any sort of telepathic development to understand what Lassie was telling him in one long, heavy glare. Shawn's cheeks turned red, not from anger but from surprise. He drew the pen across the papers soon after Carlton.

"Great!" Kat seemed to be the only one capable of speech. She stood in a room full of watchful owls. "I'll be at the house later this evening to check on things and make sure he's all settled in. Well, I've got places to go, gang, so I'll leave you! Bye, Hank, nice meeting you," she patted him on the head—he had a cute if severe cowlick, "be good to Shawn and Carlton. Bye Shawn," she hugged him again, and hugged Lassie, who hugged her back. She said something in his ear that no one but Carlton heard. He looked rather diffident when Kat let him go.

Shawn wanted to get out of the office, the police station. He just wanted to get home before he bawled his eyes out. What a day! It wasn't even one-thirty yet! Shawn hoped that the communion between him and Lassie a moment ago would open the magical portal to a decent conversation, but Lassie was out of the office almost as soon as he could get away. So much for that!

Henry pitied his son. "Here, take the truck and go home. Go to the house, if you'd like. A lot of your old toys are still in your room. Some are in the attic. Or take him to the beach."

Shawn's eyes squinted. "Under no circumstances are you ever, ever to quiz Hank about how many hats are in a room."

In spite of himself, Henry chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it, Shawn. Just—go home. I'll call you if you're needed."

"I don't have my phone. I left it at the hotel. I could stop and get it." But a part of him didn't want to. Well—all of him didn't want to, really. He'd learned too much about villains returning to the scenes of their crimes.

"Then answer the house phone," Henry suggested. "And don't worry. I think Lassiter's softening. He knows you didn't really do anything."

"Action is one thing. Suggestion is another. Both are equally nefarious in this case," Shawn said, eager not to be so easily exonerated from all wrong-doing. "I did screw up. Badly." Jovially, Shawn pecked his dad on the cheek. "Thanks for the keys. I'll call you later if I don't hear from you."

Shawn was anxious about his phone, almost breaking from protocol by driving by his house to see if Sean and Jason had dropped it off before they went into Los Angeles. He nixed the idea quickly. It'd be best if he brought some calm to his life. Driving around in his dad's stinky old buttercream truck wasn't the way to do that. He'd have to live without his phone a little longer. But he was distracted by everything that'd happened, and wondered if Jason had gone back to New York alone, if Sean had gone to his screen test alone. He looked forward to sitting down and writing out his thoughts—and realized he'd be without his notebook. It was still at his house. His phone might be there, too.

"Sorry," he signed to Hank, who ogled after the quick lane-shift the truck had completed, "I want to go somewhere else."

He'd been roughly halfway to his dad's before turning around to go to his and Lassie's on Sunberry Street. The truck he left in the driveway, the side that Lassie didn't use to pull into the carport. He supervised Hank getting out of the tall vehicle, remembering the awful time he'd had getting in and out when he'd been ten—or however old Hank was. It prompted Shawn to ask him.

"I'm eleven," Hank replied. "How old are you?"

"Old," Shawn signaled, Hank smirking.

As usual, he went to the back door rather than the front. The front door was almost exclusively used for the retrieval of delivered food, packages, and the mail. No lost cell phone was at the back door, unfortunately.

Never in the last few years, since he'd started staying at Carlton's off and on, was Shawn so happy to be home.

It smelled intensely closed-up, though, and Shawn went around opening windows, his little shadow following everywhere. The tour happened then, too—a short tour. It was a small house. But Hank was enthralled by it. He liked the nautical theme of the bedroom Shawn said he was to use. He seemed more fascinated by their collection of books than their collection of movies. Hank was perfectly at home as soon as he found Shawn's original copy of _James and the Giant Peach_, and the big red reading chair by the oversized front window. Shawn had always imagined the chair being occupied by the cat he'd wanted him and Lassie to get, and not a kid they'd never dreamed of. Much like a cat, who may or may not be around very long, Hank was only temporary.

Hank's enjoyment of reading allowed Shawn the time he needed to take notes. It helped him focus, too. He honed in on one issue rather than letting his mind zip around, relive what he hadn't wanted to relive again and again.

Eventually, stiff and sore at the neck and cramped in the hand, Hank came round carrying a DVD. Seeing what it was, Shawn smiled. Hank was much better at yoga than Shawn was, but he struggled through it, though often felt like it was a much-less fun version of the game Twister. His foibles humored Hank. Already sweaty and exhausted, yet feeling better and more optimistic, Shawn started when he heard the back door screen open and close.

"You should really figure out how to fix that lock, that's all I'm saying." Gus went straight to the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of water from the filter pitcher in the refrigerator. "Where's your au pair?" He'd no sooner asked than Hank showed up at the other kitchen entranceway, the one that went straight to the front door and, to the right, down the hall. "Don't worry, I know all about it. Your dad called me. And I've been all over Santa Barbara looking for you."

"Yes, it's so odd that I'd be at my own house. I mean, what was I thinking? I had to get out of those pants you gave me before ceased circulation did damage to parts unmentionable. You're not getting those pants back, either, just so you know. I'm donating them to a society that helps clothe eunuchs." He poured Hank a glass of water, too, after being asked if it was okay if he have one. Hank must've found them less interesting than he'd initially thought, since he wandered back to the living room for more yoga. "I think he's a miniature Jedi knight or something," Shawn said, not exactly for humor only. "He's smart, and something tells me that if I were sick enough in the head to do it, if I took him to a truck stop he'd probably be able to tell me exactly how many hats are in the room without looking. We've been doing yoga. His idea. Did you finish your route? More importantly, did you stop at the hotel and pick up my phone?"

"Yes—to your first question. Absolutely not is the answer to the second. I still think it'd do you some good if you lived without that thing for a few days. And, FYI, Shawn, Jason and Sean _are _in Los Angeles together."

Shawn leaned against the kitchen counter. That was a relief. "Did they text you?"

"A few times. Wanted me to know that they'd worked it out between them, more or less. I told them I wasn't so sure about you and Carlton."

"A completely fair assessment."

"I thought so."

"I'm guessing it's not the first time Sean's woken up hungover and naked. Addendum," Shawn swung his hand around, "make that mostly naked. He, at least, had his shirt on. Meanwhile, I had my necklace on and not much else. Oh, a sock. I think I had a sock on. On my foot, yes, before your dirty mind starts working overtime. Because I only remember putting one sock on after Lassie left me and Juliet outside the hotel. I'd had it shoved in my pocket before that. No wonder I left my phone. Did they say if they had my phone?"

"They didn't. I didn't ask. It's probably at the hotel. When I'm feeling more amiable, I'll get it for you, but not until then. Besides, without it, maybe you'll stop wandering into creepy mansions."

"Let's change the subject," Shawn suggested, aware again of that sensation of tears lurking in the back of his eyes. "What do you think about Zack Ingelow being arrested for murdering his wife? And has Woody even called it a murder? I feel really out of touch without my phone." Along with everything else. He just felt really out of touch. His snafu with Lassie had broken his bridge to everything that'd once mattered. The links to everything that made him had been damaged.

Gus caught Shawn's hug as soon as it began. He could hear Shawn sniffling. "Don't you dare start bawling. If you start, I'll start—and I don't want to." It was already too late, though, and Gus's heart sank several degrees, its dead weight springing water into his eyes. "It'll be all right. I don't know how yet, but it will."

"From your mouth to Lassie's soul, Gus," Shawn muttered, breaking off to splash cold water on his face at the sink. He'd completely forgotten what he'd asked Gus moments ago, and Gus had completely forgotten what he'd been asked.

Shawn heard the mail slot jangle, the mail fall on the tiled strip in front of the door. When he and Gus got out of the kitchen, they found Hank with his eyeballs glued to the open mail slot. Shawn took him outside and showed him Caroline, their mail carrier, as she made her way to the next house. "Imagine being a kid and not knowing what a mail slot is," Shawn said to Gus as he collected the mail off the floor. "I was always hoping you and Jules would produce a cute twist cone of a baby so we could totally introduce it to all the fun Eighties stuff we grew up on. Oh," Shawn's heart tilted toward sad again as he read a yellow envelope, "a card from Mom." He'd been missing his mom for a while. She'd stayed a week, as long as she could, when Shawn had been recuperating. Though she'd always liked Carlton, Maddie believed that nothing was perfect and everything took hard work. Moms are almost always right.

"Did anyone tell Hank about his mom?" asked Gus, watching the eleven-year-old sort through the movie collection. He'd certainly come across many Eighties goodies in there. "Juliet never said, just that Zack is in custody."

"No," Shawn said dismissively, "no one's told him because no one has to tell him: he knows."

"He _knows_? How's he know?"

"He must've seen it on the news or something."

"I can't follow your brain, Shawn. You know I can't. Saw what on the news?"

"Dude, the body found at the mansion. Do you want some iced tea? I think I'll make some."

This was where Shawn had thrived since coming home from the hospital: peaceful domesticity. Gus didn't question it—even if he wanted to, he wasn't really sure what he could question about it. Juliet suspected that Shawn was merely passionate about creating a heathy environment for him and Carlton, a place that was homier and more blissful than the house he'd grown up in. What was to argue if that were true?

Shawn got tugged on the wrist, already growing used to it. Hank held up the first season of _Glee_. "Sure, you can watch that," he signed. "Know how to work everything?" Hank nodded at him, already powering up the television and DVD. "Big fan of _Glee_," Shawn remarked, reconnoitering with Gus in the kitchen. "That'll make me and Carlton's life somewhat easier, depending on how long Hank's with us. What was it we were saying? Oh, right, the body on the news. What else would draw Hank to the mansion but seeing that a body had been recovered there?"

Gus purged himself of the empathy. "That's just great. Poor kid."

"He seems pretty resilient. Besides, unlike Paul Harvey, we don't know the rest of the story. Maybe he didn't know Anabel very well. Or maybe he didn't know his father—or his grandmother." Shawn took out the ingredients and wares necessary to make tea. In the background, _Glee_'s pilot episode started, oddly comforting. "I'm not involved in the case, and I don't think it'd do me any good to talk about it. I'm going to watch Hank, and somehow patch things up with Lassie. Those are my main goals right now. I do better if I have something to focus on."

"Focus on the sugar," Gus said.

"What?"

"The sugar spilling all over the floor."

The box of fine sugar had tipped over, some of it falling on the counter, most of it on the floor. Gus helped Shawn sweep it up and wipe it away.

"Yeah, I'm really at my best when I have one or two things to focus on at a time," said Shawn, now positive the statement dripped with self-derision.

"You do all right, considering what you have to work with." It was the first time in a long time Gus had ever heard Shawn Spencer be so hard on himself. He rather hoped it wasn't a trend that'd outstay its welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

The motives for all crimes  
in detective stories should be personal.  
It must reflect the reader's everyday experiences,  
and give him a certain outlet for his own  
repressed desires and emotions.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

10.

Gus stayed until seven o' clock,at times fumbling through Shawn's notebook of wild speculations and inconclusive details. Since he read neither of the Three S's, best at the Spanish though that wasn't saying a whole lot, Gus sated himself on the intermittent, brief English marks Shawn had printed in the notebook's margins. Gus had no clue how Shawn drew anything from the nonsense, but must've seen a pattern usually visible only to the honey bees, butterflies and Shawn Spencers of the world. At a message from Juliet, Gus patted Shawn's messy hair, passed along his farewell to Hank, and headed for the back door. In the still evening, Gus heard the crunch of another set of feet over dry grass. He practically ran into Lassiter.

"I called Shawn like a million times today," Lassiter said, clearly exaggerating to dramatize his point. "Why didn't he answer?"

"His phone's still missing. He thinks it might be at the hotel."

Oh. Well. That made sense, if anything of the day could make sense. "Why didn't he go to the hotel for it?"

"I'm guessing he didn't want to, and I wouldn't take him." Gus was stating the obvious, but sometimes the obvious, especially when it came in Shawn's general direction, swooped right by an oblivious Lassiter. It happened with people who knew one another well. "And I didn't pick it up for him, because I thought it'd behoove him to live without it for a little while. I hope you didn't want anything important."

"No," Carlton answered dejectedly, "nothing that couldn't wait until I got home. Gus, am I," he paused, an affliction when he asked his friends for advice, "doing the right thing, forgiving him?"

"Yeah, I think you are." Gus said his response promptly, proudly.

"The whole thing's cyclical anyway. If I hadn't set Shawn up on the wild goose chase, he wouldn't have found out that I was behind it much sooner than I expected him to, and he wouldn't have felt like the Hayworths were stalking him from beyond the grave; and if he hadn't been feeling so awful about it, he wouldn't have had one too many drinks—"

"More like bottles," Gus said. "_Multiple_ bottles."

"—multiple bottles of wine that then caused him to retaliate with boyish and immature semi-manic behavior."

"I think it's a fair assumption that the whole thing is very cyclical. You and Shawn have different sort of arguments than me and Juliet. You and Shawn, I don't know what it is, but it's almost—"

"Magical," Carlton supplied, hoping he was kidding, knowing he wasn't.

Gus agreed. "Magical. Because everything always seems to be even, and both of you carry the blame. Well," he smacked Carlton on the shoulder, "I'm going home. Try to have a good night."

Once inside the mudroom, Carlton's nerves took over. Queasy and trembly, he found Shawn and Hank in the living room. Shawn smiled as Hank mirrored the dance in the _Glee _episode with stunning accuracy, but seeing Carlton watching from the shadows of the dining room, Shawn hit Pause on the remote, and signaled to Hank that Carlton was back. To Carlton's astonishment, Hank ran up and hugged him, signed a thanks—presumably for letting him stay there. Shawn sent his communiqués to Carlton without words. But Carlton turned down the hallway without an acknowledgement. A minute later, he vanished behind the bathroom door, the shower beginning to perform its light whistle.

Shawn thought about preparing dinner. He wasn't the least bit hungry, of course. When he started to smell food, maybe that would enable his forlorn appetite. Unsure if Hank had any food allergies, and aware that a child of eleven would likely know what he was allergic to, Shawn put the question to him. No, no allergies. Thank goodness. He did sign that he didn't really like fish. Shawn hadn't liked fish much when he was that age, either, unless his dad grilled it.

Shawn had a decent assistant in the kitchen. He tried to tell Hank he didn't have to help, but that was useless. In fact, Hank looked forward to setting the bistro table with plates and forks, glasses of tea and napkins. Again, Shawn wondered what kind of home life Hank had had.

Whatever the remains of their tiff, Carlton set it aside long enough to dine with Shawn. He was really there for Hank—and the food. Shawn's vegetarian chili-mac was worth the tension that clogged his heart, though. Hank liked it, too, having two servings before declaring himself stuffed. Now that he was away from the prying eyes of many uniformed officers, streams of Hank's personality were shining through. His oeuvre of practiced expressions certainly rivaled Shawn's. They were alike in ways Carlton couldn't always put his finger on, and the effect was alluring, even funny.

Hank's help with dinner didn't end with the preparation, but with the wiping off of the table, the closing of the tiny dishwasher door, the cleaning of the counter. After this bout of industriousness, Hank asked if he could go in the backyard. Shawn took his tea, his library book, and sat on the patio while Hank did whatever it was boys do in the evening. Shawn lost track of Lassie. He didn't loose track of Hank, who was content checking out the trees, digging in the dirt with random sticks, peeking at the neighbors and the dogs that walked by in front of the house. He enjoyed looking at Shawn's Norton and asked if he could have a ride sometime. "When you're older," Shawn signed, forgetting that Hank was going to be there until Nina Grayson was found. He took the chance to ask if Hank knew his grandmother very well.

"Grandma Nina," Hank called her, and exhibited neither disdain nor affection for her.

"I knew her when I was about your age. She used to be a cop here."

"Yes, she's told me that. She's a big fan of yours."

"Me? Really? Wonder why?"

"I don't know. She thinks you're great." Hank, probably not used to talking about himself, or avoiding talking about his mother and father, turned the questions around to Shawn. "Is your mom a cop, too, like your dad?"

"Mom's a therapist. And Dad's not a cop, he's like me: a consultant."

"You're not a cop?"

"No. I used to be a freelance psychic detective."

Hank's odd-colored eyes popped, then his face fell. "That makes sense. Grandma Nina never said you were a cop, just that you worked for the police. Is that how you met Carlton?"

"Years ago, yes. I don't do much work for the police anymore. I write more. Articles for internet sites. And I dabble in astrology."

"Astrology? You mean, 'I'm a Leo' and all of that?"

"That's right. When is your birthday? Are you a Leo?"

Hank gave him a deadpan look. "Of course! Can't you tell? I'm bossy, I have good hair, and I love everything."

Shawn threw back his head and laughed. "Sounds like I should've been a Leo. I'm an Aquarius. Carlton's an Aries."

Hank studied this information quietly for a moment. Shawn had a chance to ask him how he'd come to be so knowledgeable about astrology.

"Books," Hank said. "Grandma Nina used to take me to the library a lot, and I'd read non-fiction and fiction. I like both. I read a few books on astrology. One on psychics. Not one on psychic detectives."

"I don't think there are too many you could read."

"Then you should write one. I'd read it. So would Grandma Nina."

"I'll think about it."

The only conversation Shawn had with Carlton, of any length, came when they were trying to get Hank settled in the Nautical Room. Shawn was pretty sure that if they just told him to go to bed and that his light had to be out by ten o' clock—Lassiter winning out of Shawn's time of ten-thirty—Hank would go to sleep on his own. Carlton and Shawn were in the kitchen, voices harsh and lowered, while Hank was in the bathroom changing into the pajamas Shawn had bought for him before they came home.

"I paid for it with my own money," Shawn said, first so used to signing that he started to, then quit mid-sentence. "Sorry," he signed it, not speaking it, trying to jest with Lassie, "habit."

"Your own money doesn't matter. You could've used the credit card," Carlton replied, contrite. "He's under my supervision, too, not just yours."

"Yeah, about that. What made you do it?"

Carlton refused to answer. The possible responses overwhelmed him. For one thing, he didn't want to be the one to tell Hank he had to go to some family that wouldn't be able to talk to him as well, or as enthusiastically as Shawn—and, at times, himself, since Carlton had learned a little from Shawn—and it really was a fascinating language. If not, as he'd once joked, very useful in the dark.

Carlton wondered if Kat wasn't right, that having Hank around would be a big enough distraction that their fight would become trivial. Finding Shawn naked with another man, who'd also been pretty naked, well—what could trivialize that if the wine and Shawn's apologies hadn't? Carlton was angry at himself for not being angrier about the whole situation, too. He'd always been extremely possessive of his significant others. Perhaps Shawn's flamboyance, his social exuberance, was enough to keep Carlton from finding fault in Shawn's behavior. It annoyed him that the thought of Shawn with someone else—including a good actor with a very fine body—kind of turned him on. It'd pissed the hell out of him, of course, but it'd kinda turned him on. Now that was extremely rankling, but not exactly surprising. He'd always enjoyed Shawn doing all sorts of things in the bedroom (sometimes not the bedroom), and being an observer could be half the fun. It was difficult for Carlton to maintain his level of humiliation and hurt, and not just fling Shawn against the counter and make out with him.

So far, Carlton hadn't solved any issues, and more than anything he just wanted to forget what'd happened. The Anabel Grayson case was a way to do that. He still couldn't believe she was Grayson's daughter…

What a mess everything seemed. How out of whack it all was.

As Shawn had predicted, Hank had no trouble going into his room and reading _James and the Giant Peach _before the light would go out at ten. Later on, Shawn was sitting in the living room with Lassie, the two of them engrossed in their own activities—Carlton with his Lincoln book and Shawn with his ephemeris—the two of them leaping to attention at a knock on the back door. The cop in Carlton refused to let Shawn answer it alone.

With the sconce flung into action, Shawn and Carlton recognized the faces on the stoop: Jason and Sean Laramie. They were tired but well, pleased to see that Carlton hadn't thrown Shawn out of the house. Pressed for time, they refused the invitation to step inside.

"We're on our way back to the hotel for the night," Jason said, not sure how rueful he looked, but feeling that it sprung out of him from every pore. "We just wanted to stop by for a second."

"To give you this." Sean held out Shawn's phone. "We meant to drop it off earlier today, but we were running late and had to get to L.A.; we didn't have the chance."

"Sorry," Jason said, throwing a lot into two syllables.

"You might want to look at your phone's recorded movies, though," Sean said, suggestively smiling.

"There's some revealing information."

"I found something like it on my phone," Sean continued, rubbing the back of his neck as it grew hot. "And thought to check yours when we were driving back up here. It'll explain things. We thought we'd better mention it in person. In case."

Too hopeful for words, Shawn was speechless.

"Thanks," Carlton uttered.

"We'll see you tomorrow," said Jason. "I'll call you in the morning, and we'll figure out how to have lunch." He was glaringly confident that what was on Shawn's phone would mend the fracture, strengthening it until it was stronger than before. "Goodnight."

A series of muttered goodnights passed, and Shawn found himself at a standstill in the dining room. He plowed through his phone, looking for the video file. Finding it, he and Lassie watched together. What occurred was rather what Shawn had thought must've happened, that he and Sean hadn't done anything at all, hadn't even gotten into bed at the same time. The nudity? Drunken chat about Merchant/Ivory films! Sean and Shawn had reenacted the "Come and have a bathe!" scene from _A Room with a View_. The "You be Julian Sands and I'll be Rupert Graves" line from Shawn and its ensuing dialogue confirmed it. Instead of running into the pond (or, in this case, the bed) and springing off it immediately, Laramie had jumped onto the bed and promptly into alcoholic coma. Shawn's watery, drunken voice said to the camera, "Oh, that looks like more fun! Night, night!" He'd kissed the camera—and the recording ended.

Shawn was more embarrassed than he'd ever been in his life. "I never knew James Ivory could get me into so much trouble! The very tediousness and Britishness of his films alone should've saved me from turmoil! But Rupert Graves' hotness, yeah, I can see how that would get me in trouble. I'm so—so sorry, Carlton."

"It's not like you and Sean decided to reenact a missing sex scene from _Maurice_." Carlton shot Shawn a mocking look. "In which, incidentally, you still could've been Rupert Graves—with a better body." He left the rest of his insinuation alone, smacking his lips against Shawn's forehead. "I'm going to bed. We can talk more about it tomorrow."

Shawn let him go, knowing full well that by the time he was ready for bed, Lassie would be sound asleep. Still feeling surreal, and that he hadn't quite repented for the seemingly innocent reenactment, Shawn zipped through his photographs. He and Sean had taken a lot of photos of one another, thankfully none of body parts that carried pet names. Visible in the last photograph he'd snapped, three bottles of wine on the kitchen counter behind Sean, and another one, a fourth, on the table. That was an insane amount of wine for two men to drink. Shawn was beginning to feel fortunate that they hadn't done anything worse, and that no one else had seen it. That'd be all he'd need, going on a bender in a hotel room with the hunk from _Gotham Splendor_.

Shawn set the phone to recharge, pleased to have it back, happy that it'd exonerated him. Not sure that he'd completely cleared the air between him and Carlton, Shawn created a bed on the sofa. It'd been a long time since he'd slept on Carlton's couch. With the television quietly spewing forth a late-night talk show, Shawn fell asleep.

Dawn cast a ghostly gray glow in the living room when he woke. The television, not surprisingly, was off, and everything in the house was quiet and still. Waking on the sofa changed his perspective of a place he'd taken for granted the last few months. But when released from the hospital, after what'd seemed like years, there'd been nowhere sweeter to Shawn than the tiny house on Sunberry, nothing kinder to him than Carlton.

In the big red chair in front of the window, Shawn caught sight of a blanketed figure, Hank buried in there somewhere. For all Shawn knew, maybe Hank wasn't used to sleeping in a full-sized bed and didn't like it. First night in a strange house, Shawn wasn't surprised.

The kitchen carried faint noises, patterings and taps and running water. Carlton rinsed the coffee pot as he noticed Shawn yawning.

"Good morning." Out of conscious practice, aware of a little person sleeping nearby, Carlton kept his voice low. Shawn poked him in the ribs as he walked by.

"You don't have to whisper." He upped his volume: "OUTDOOR VOICES ARE FINE."

"I forgot. I mean—I didn't forget but it's just kind of—never mind. How'd you sleep?"

"All right. You?"

Carlton had been disappointed that Shawn hadn't crawled into bed with him last night. He'd waited, only as long as he could keep his eyes open, though, and that wasn't more than ten minutes. "I'm not sure how he ended up out there."

Shawn gave his theory about a new house, a big bed, and again mentioning that they knew nothing about Hank's life in Missouri. "He did say that he and Grandma Nina—Grayson—spend a lot of time together. Did you ever hear what they were doing in Santa Barbara?"

"Zack Ingelow said he didn't know why Anabel came out here with Hank. Ingelow doesn't call him Hank, did you know that? He calls him Sheridan."

"Hank is how he introduced himself to me. Neither of us has a problem with that name. It's a diminutive of my father's name, and it is the name of your patronly mentor. Did Zack think Anabel had kidnapped Hank?"

"He hinted at it, yeah. Said he was on the verge of calling the cops when he just happened to figure out that she was coming to Santa Barbara."

"You think he's lying."

"Close. I think he's stretching the truth. He probably heard it from a neighbor—or his mistress, for all I know. You're not on the case, though." He pinned Shawn to the spot, clutching Shawn's waist with one hand, removing the mug from Shawn's grip with the other. "You're not supposed to be interested in the details."

"It's Hank I want to know about. Where are his things? Where are his papers? What's his home life like, and why did his mom _really_ bring him here? Mom's usually have a reason for dragging their children halfway across the country a couple of weeks before school starts."

"Doesn't your brain ever stop thinking?" Carlton held Shawn's face, leaving short and wet kisses wherever his mouth happened to land.

"No," Shawn answered truthfully, hiking his chin for Lassie to kiss his neck. "Apparently, even when I've downed loads of really high-quality vino, my brain just soars to the zenith of cinematic masterpieces. Honestly, this feels weird. Not that I'm not enjoying it," he loved it when Carton breathed on his ear and scraped it with his teeth, "but there's another person in the house, and unless he's part dormouse, he could wake up any second. Though if my calculations are correct, he wouldn't be grossed out or anything."

This anchored Carlton's attention on something other than kissing his boyfriend. "Why do you say that?"

Shawn returned to making his tea. "I think he's—of the Oscar Wilde sort, if we're still running with the Merchant-Ivory theme."

"He's eleven years old!" Lassie screeched, running a palm along his hair. "How can he be gay when he's eleven years old! Maybe he's just—" He failed to bring up a suitable analogy.

"Maybe he's just gay. And yes, at eleven years old. It happens. I was eleven when I started checking out guys' butts, granted that was mostly on accident."

"Why do you think this? Psychic vibration or something? Jeez, Shawn, you've hardly spent twenty-four hours with him. We spent six years together before you got anywhere with me."

Shawn ignored the taunt. "Well, he watched a whole lot of _Glee_."

"Gimme a break. McNab watches _Glee_. Everyone watches it. It's the vaudevillian plague that Fox let loose upon us, curing us of our unhappiness _and _any ailment that's of the socioeconomic or inherently neurological variety."

"I have no idea what you just said, but it was totally sexy. Hank kept telling me how much he loves," he signed this, "Chris Colfer."

"Everyone _loves _Kurt. He's pretty, talented, non-threatening, has just enough self-confidence to get things done but maintains an acceptable level of modesty. Not to mention that he has a big heart—even in the first season when he was portrayed as slightly more selfish. He's perfect. He reminds me of you."

"I should be writing these _Glee_ insights down to save for later. Just in case I ever decide to write that Ryan Murphy biography. Not winning you over on my spiel about Hank, am I?

"So far, honey, I'm kind of unimpressed with your theory."

Shawn got frustrated. "I can't explain it, all right! Just call it a psychic connection or what have you! And, anyway, it's not a big deal if he is or isn't."

"Not to us. My mom's a late-in-life lesbian, for crying out loud. As am I—obviously without the lesbian part. We're not Hank's parents, though. Some parents are unkind about things like that."

Shawn tapped his nose, then stole a kiss from Lassie for the astute observation. "That's why I'm so curious about Hank's home life and why he was brought here."

"You think Anabel Ingelow's death has something to do with an eleven-year-old's sexuality—i.e. _her_ _son's_?"

"I grant you, it's not the _usual _cause of murder. At least," Shawn slowed the dunking of his teabag in the sorry dip his thoughts took, "not killing a parent—sometimes it's that a parent kills the kid. I didn't say it was a _great _theory, all right? Fine, yeah, it's not up there with—with _Relativity_—and _Evolution_—and _Structural Sociology_! But it's a theory!"

"I can't even figure out how your theory would work. And it doesn't explain what Anabel Ingelow was doing here in Santa Barbara. Zack Ingelow has a pack of good lawyers, real lupine ambulance chasers, too, so he's not saying much." Carlton wished to drop the subject, but a peek at the big red chair said Hank was still asleep. "What are you and Hank going to do all day? Watch a Cher concert or a WE Network _Will &amp; Grace _marathon?"

"Stop it," Shawn said, chuckling, lightly smacking Carlton on the chest. "I have to go to work at three. Will you be home by three?"

"I can't promise anything, but I can try."

"I bet we can leave him home by himself. He's pretty responsible. I've sensed that he's their only child."

"That's one of your theories that I can prove, anyway." He was far more used to mornings like this with Shawn, sitting at the bistro table, Shawn browsing news on his phone, Carlton enjoying his toast and coffee. He ran a bare foot up the curve of Shawn's shin.

"Gosh, Lass, make me feel bad that I never got into bed last night."

"That's the point. Isn't there some modern-day theory that make-up sex is awesome? Since we're still talking theories."

Shawn liked Lassie's antiquated, almost Victorian-era way of seeing Twenty-first Century Coupling. "Yeah, that's what I hear. We've had it a few of times. If you're sure everything between us is okay now."

"For the most part, yeah. I still think we should have another therapy session. Just to make sure everything's cleared up. A mature and professional environment where we can safely analyze our feelings for one another."

Shawn had enough shame about the whole event to fill up an hour of therapy himself. One of the things his mother had told him, "If you need help, by God, Shawn, get it. You can't expect to have all the answers yourself." Another point for Mom! He nodded his acceptance of Lassie's plan. "I'll make the appointment Monday. Well, I'll have the calendar on my phone remind me on Monday to make the appointment. What should we do about Hank while I'm at work, if you're not home yet?"

Carlton tried to be sensible. As per the code he'd always imagined he'd live by if he ever had a child, he was overprotective but wanting the kid to have more freedom and more love than he'd experienced. "We'll ask him what he wants to do. If he wants to stay here, leave him your phone and tell him to keep the screen up so the light on it will attract his attention."

"The phone has a blinkie-blinkie light that I can turn on, too."

"Well, either way, as long as he knows when we message him. And not to reply to anything that's not from me. Fair?"

"Yeah," Shawn was impressed, warmed by it. "See, we would've been great parents to some fortunate kitty cat."

Any reaction he had to this, Carlton kept to himself. "A different sort of 'Kat' will probably call one of us today and ask to see us. She was supposed to stop by last night, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, but it didn't worry me that she didn't."

It hadn't worried Carlton. "She'll be in touch today." He swung his suit coat over his arm, bent over at the waist to kiss Shawn goodbye. As he'd anticipated, Shawn gripped his shirt—he hardly wore ties on Saturdays—and kept their mouths together a little longer, open a little wider than what a goodbye smooch was normally. "I like not fighting with you."

"Shockingly, I share your beautiful opinion. Can you get away for lunch? Jason and Sean said—"

"That's right." He'd forgotten that portion of their friends' late-evening visit. "Let me know what you plan, and I'll see if I can meet you somewhere. It's up to Hank if he wants to go with you or stay here." He looked at the blankets again, seeing that they rose and fell with the child's normal breathing. Again, he kissed Shawn and said goodbye. But, again, he paused before leaving Shawn's side. "You know, Shawn—everyone goes crazy every once in a while."

"I know."

"It happens."

"Yeah, it does."

"I went crazy when I found Anabel's body in the fountain yesterday."

Shawn hadn't considered Carlton's take on the whole thing, what it must've been like for him to go back to that house and see an unidentifiable corpse in the water.

"I thought I'd failed to protect you. Like before—only worse this time because I didn't know what'd happened right away. I'm sorry about that. Letting you go there without me—"

"It was all right."

"—and not knowing that the sea chest would lead you back there."

Unsure what to do or say, Shawn contemplated the origins of this confession. It had more to do with Waylon Scobie shooting Shawn Spencer at the Hayworth place than it did with Detective Lassiter finding the body of Anabel Ingelow at the Hayworth place. The presence of stale regrets obtruded into his thoughts, too. Shawn inhaled, holding his gaze against Carlton's.

"I wish I'd said yes, you know. When you asked me. But I just couldn't wrap my head around why you were asking. Because I'd just been shot three times and was still in the hospital and you felt sorry for me—or because the whole thing had surprised you and scared you? If I'd died, it wouldn't have been any easier losing a husband than a boyfriend."

Carlton blinked, eager to kick the impression of redness and tears out of his eyes. "Being practical, I asked because it was a little bit of everything you just said. But also about my rights and your rights, and getting those people in the hospital to respect me while I was waiting for you to decide I was worth coming back to life for. I had every right to be there, but not every legal right. It was annoying. Maybe those aren't the most romantic reasons in the world, but—it's just the way I felt." He patted Shawn's cheek, held their mouths together again, and headed for the back door. "I'll call you later."

He hadn't expected Shawn to follow him to the car. Already seated in it, with the window down and fiddling with the radio stations, he found Shawn grabbing him and kissing him hard.

Shawn looked at him keenly. "When do I get to say yes?"

Carlton's eyes actually twinkled. "When I ask you again."


	11. Chapter 11

The reader must have equal opportunity  
with the detective for solving the mystery.  
All clues must be plainly stated and described.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

11.

Lunch at Cafe Del Sol with Jason and Sean began as a stoic study in anxiety and how friends handle it, but ended on the cheerful notes of friendship they'd cultivated through the years. At Gus's lonely arrival ten minutes into the meal, he received plenty of remorse that Juliet was unable to join him.

Gus scanned a menu he'd learned ages ago. "She sends her condolences, but she's been up to her eyeballs in that armed robbery from last week."

"Another reason I didn't want her working with me on this new case," Carlton said. "She's got that headache to worry about, and that hasn't been an easy case."

"Did you take a look at it?" Gus asked him, then threw out his beverage and meal order to the server.

"She's had everyone look at that case," Carlton answered. "Except you and Shawn."

Shawn was shaking his head, preempting Gus's speech. "No, dude. Just _no._"

Gus took the blatant brush-off to heart. Conversational topics were switched rapidly. "So, Sean, how did the screen-test go?"

As with most actors, Sean was happy to tell anyone about his work. Unlike some actors, though, he was more grateful to be where he was. After climbing through a couple of really horrendous ordeals, he had more than enough reason to be thankful for the position he now had in his career as well as his life.

Shawn was sorry to part with Sean and Jason at lunch's end. They were heading to the airport, back to New York City. Sean made Shawn promise one thing: "Don't work too hard."

Later, on the phone with his dad, Shawn repeated the phrase. It was as funny to Henry Spencer as Shawn had anticipated. "Don't work too hard? You're the epitome of slacker. Well," Henry obtained a sprinkling of self-reproach, "maybe not so much anymore. But you used to be—at least of a certain type."

"Come on, Dad, admit it: I was never really a slacker. You only thought that about me for a really long time because I worked odd jobs and never seemed to stay in one place for very long."

"I used to think there were outstanding warrants for your arrest, you moved around so much."

"Being a cop, you would know better. And now I've had more fun in my life and done more things than anyone I know, and I was happy. I'm happy now, as a matter of fact. Don't tell me you're at the station, too."

Henry looked around the busy office. O'Hara's case was giving everyone fits of nerves and annoyance, and Lassiter was still eager to drill any information he could out of Zack Ingelow. "I think I'll cut out of here in a bit. Wait—aren't you supposed to work this afternoon?"

"I don't know, you tell me. You keep stricter tabs on my schedule than Tina Athens does. It's almost scary."

"I like to know where you are at all times." One too many times had Shawn dropped off the radar. If he—Henry—and Lassiter hadn't been attacked by an unexplained case of restlessness the afternoon Scobie decided that shooting Shawn Spencer would be the last thing he did on earth, who knew what would've happened?

"I'm not sure what to do with Hank while I'm at work, if Lassie's not home yet." Shawn's conclusions were reinforced with much greater rapidity than before. All he had to do was recall the way Hank had held tightly to his newfound friend yesterday. "Know what? Never mind. I'm taking him with me. Hope he likes horses."

"Probably. Most boys do."

"Where's his stuff, anyway? I assume that he had a backpack or a suitcase when his mother brought him out here."

"Hank's stuff is in Evidence."

"Still? I bought him a few things yesterday, but I'm pretty sure he'd like to have his own clothes back."

"I'll see if I can put a rush on it."

"Yes, Father, ostentatiously display your authority. Any sign of Anabel Ingelow's car?"

"Her car? Shawn, we can't even find the crime scene. Anabel Ingelow had kelp in her lungs, the coroner said."

"Yeah, and no sand anywhere on her body. I caught that, too."

"The kelp might've been a plant."

"Oh, the pun! Have you no sense of pun decency, Dad?"

"Shawn—"

"Yes, it could be a piece of evidence taken from its natural habitat and into an unnatural habitat to throw us—and by that I mean you—off the real crime scene."

"Which is—where?"

"Where do you think?"

"The mansion?"

"More than likely."

"The neighbors didn't hear or see anything suspicious."

"I have to go, Pop. This was supposed to be a short conversation and it's rapidly turning into something way too important—and interesting."

"If you want to think of a way to keep Zack Ingelow in jail, you're going to have to come up with something, kid. Evidence here is deteriorating."

"Hanging up now. For real. Have to go to work. With horses."

Having finally ended the call, Shawn sat still for a while to regurgitate the important facts. While technically not on the case, from his faraway position he could see a number of things that were a bit more myopic to those talented individuals trying to figure it out, chiefly Lassie and his team.

The phone didn't even have a chance to cool off before Shawn contacted Carlton. He explained about taking Hank to work with him. "Just as well," Carlton said, tight with stress and misery. "I don't know when I'm going to get out of here."

Shawn had nothing specific about the case that he could tell Carlton. No ideas of the crime scene came to him, but with Anabel Ingelow's missing car, he had a pretty good idea. He wasn't the only one. "Try to be home when we get home. I'm only going for this show jumping thing they're having out there this afternoon," Shawn said, likely the third or fourth time he'd explained it to Carlton. "We should be home around six—maybe six-thirty."

Carlton promised he'd have a simple dinner prepared by that time, a fine coercion to get Shawn home at the hour stipulated. Shawn used to have a tendency to wander around after work, and Carlton would call him forty or sixty minutes later, demanding to know his whereabouts. Shawn would be at the beach, or out with Gus, or spending casual time with his coworkers. But with Hank in tow, Carlton didn't doubt Shawn's ability to walk through the door between six and six-thirty.

At the barns, Hank already looking around, totally enthralled with everything, including the ride on public transportation and the short walk to the country club, Shawn was again on his phone.

"Officer McNab," Buzz greeted.

"Hey, Nabby! It's Shawn Spencer."

"Hey, Shawn. What can I do for you?"

"Is my boyfriend around?"

"I think he's at his desk on the phone." Buzz McNab had powers of deduction, a skill he'd improved across the years. He concluded that Shawn wasn't calling him just to get to Detective Lassiter. Quite the opposite, actually. "We have plenty of space to talk. I'm in the Video Room with Officer Tyas, actually. We got some emails from the police in Columbia, Missouri—about the Ingelows. You're not on that case, are you? I mean, I know the boy's staying with you and Carlton, but—well, what can I do for you?"

"I have a couple of questions and an idea."

"All right, shoot."

"Question one: I know how extensive the interview with Hank was yesterday afternoon, I was there, but did the chief or Lassie mention interviewing him again?"

"Not that I've heard. The poor kid probably said all he could say. Why?"

With Hank in line of sight, Shawn's instinct was to bypass McNab's question. "He doesn't seem surprised or upset much about his mom, and that's something I can't figure out."

"The Ingelows were separated," Buzz said. "Didn't you know that?"

"That helps a lot. And no, I didn't. I haven't looked at the case file and I haven't even spoken a single word to Zack Ingelow. I take it Hank was living with his dad."

"For three years, off and on."

"Separated for three years, no divorce in sight?"

"Mr. Ingelow said they were still in counseling, and they were happier being apart. These things happen."

"Hank lived with his dad with Anabel's mother around more often than Anabel."

"That's how it appears."

"What do you mean?"

"The chief said that you requested photographs of Hank's room back in Columbia."

"Yes—yes, I did do that. Showing a lot of blank wall space and very little personality."

"Your clairvoyance is accurate, Shawn, as usual. Hank's room at his mother's house _and _his father's apartment are both pretty bare. Anabel was a nurse and a student at the local college. She didn't have a lot of time to spend with Hank, but even Zack says he was very devoted to her. Should I be telling Detective Lassiter that we've had this conversation?"

"No," Shawn replied, mischievous, "even if he tortures you."

"Then I should hang up. I just looked out the hallway here and he's coming this way. Oh. Wait. No. He turned to the chief's office. What's your idea? Frankly, Shawn, we're out of ideas and even Detective Lassiter's having a hard time coming up with anything we can do. Mr. Ingelow won't confess to killing his wife. I mean, that's a given. We don't know where Nina Grayson is. Or Mrs. Ingelow's car. We don't know where she was killed. We don't know where her cell phone is. There's really a lot we don't know."

"I would like you to do something for me. But don't tell Lassie."

"I don't know, Shawn," Buzz responded slowly. "You and Lassiter just got out of a really bad fight and I don't want to do anything that would bring about some unwanted feelings again."

"No, no, Nabby, it'll be fine. The silence I've requested of you doesn't have anything to do with Lassie. It's something I'm not sure will pan out, and the fewer mistakes I make and everyone hears about, the better I'll feel about my sleuthing self. It's been a long time since I've done this, you know."

Boy, didn't McNab know! And unlike riding a bicycle… Well, solving cases wasn't really at all like riding a bicycle. "Okay, I'll do as you ask. Anything to keep your sleuthing self happy. What is it?"

Shawn told him, and McNab, intrigued, said he'd get right on it.

Shawn had his five-foot-one shadow around him throughout the day. Hank, infused with a personality that defied most anxieties and fears, was no weakling around horses. Shawn let him lead a few of the tamer ones out of their stalls, and taught him the proper method of returning a horse to the stall. But Hank liked best the grooming. The horses made funny faces then, sucking in their soft and whiskery mouths while the curry comb hit them in spots they couldn't reach. As the few hours of labor zipped by, Shawn wanted to intercept their peacefulness by asking Hank if he really understood that his father was in jail and his mother was dead. Only when he took an inquisitive call from Kat the social worker did Shawn have a chance to understand how much Hank knew. It was more than Shawn had originally supposed, both comforted that he didn't have to explain the situation further to Hank, and that there was no additional discomforting news to bring him.

The walk from the bus stop to home, Shawn's mind continued its rapid boil of thoughts. Hank stayed at his side, occasionally expressing an emotional distance Shawn didn't try to dissuade or halt. This wasn't Hank's home, and he was probably missing his friends, not to mention his mother, father and ever-present grandmother. Hank's despondency continued when he stepped into the mud room. He went straight to the big red chair after sending a limp hello to Carlton.

"Combination of things, really," Shawn said, expounding on Hank's behavior. "We had a very exciting day at the barns, equally thrilling rides on public transportation," he paused while Carlton smirked, "and, all and all, it was a tiring day. Dinner smells delicious, and thank you for not making fish. After we eat, I'd like to go over to Nova Place."

The cupboard almost slammed on Carlton's fingers, he was so surprised. "Nova Place? You mean the Hayworths' again? Why on earth do you think I'd let you go back there?"

"Are we doing that _Whose Line is it Anyway? _game where we can only talk in questions?"

Carlton wasn't angered enough to play along. "Why? Does it sound like we are? And why the Hayworth place again?"

"What if I told you that it wasn't the Hayworth place I wanted to look at?"

"Do you know what cheeriness looks like?" Carlton let out a bright, oversized but obviously fake grin. "Did you know it looks like this?" he said through his white teeth.

"What if I told you that I want to look at the _street _of—of Nova Place?"

Carlton waited ten seconds too long to come up with a retorting query—and couldn't do it. "Damn it," he muttered.

Shawn made a slash mark on the dry erase board they kept on the side of the refrigerator, tallying up the points of their games. Despite Shawn's practice, Carlton was only a few slash marks behind. He helped Carlton load up small plates with spaghetti. Maybe Carlton wasn't a splendid chef, but he could make spaghetti.

"I have this theory that Anabel's cell phone might be over there somewhere," said Shawn.

"We asked Hank, and he said his mother left their hotel room this morning and he went out to find her a few hours later. She didn't tell him where she was going."

"That's how he ended up back at the mansion, I know." Shawn recalled the muddy knees and dirt under the kid's fingernails when they first met at the mansion, and that when Gus had caught the sprinting ghost, Hank hadn't fallen to the patio flagstones. How, then, had he become so engulfed in earth? He must've been looking for something. His mother's phone, for instance. "I had a vision this afternoon that her phone's buried on Nova Place somewhere."

"Couldn't narrow it down, could you?"

"I'll see if I can get within inches—just for you, my lovely sweet muffin of a man."

For adequate reason, Carlton didn't believe him. "We've had no luck tracing it with GPS. It's probably off now, with a dead battery. I admit that having her phone might shed some light on what she's doing in Santa Barbara. Zack knew she was going and taking Hank with her, but the excuse she gave him seems pretty ridiculous."

"She wanted to see where she was born, and see the ocean again?"

See, moments like those, Carlton had to assume that Shawn was psychic. That was precisely what Zack Ingelow had said of his wife's visit to Santa Barbara.

Actually, McNab had told that to Shawn before the two hung up earlier that day, and Shawn had been waiting to squeeze it into a communication with Carlton. It'd piqued Shawn's interest, more in Nina Grayson than her only child Anabel.

Hank's appetite that evening was minimal, but neither Shawn nor Carlton begrudged it to him. "You can have some ice cream later," Carlton told him. Well, what he'd said was, "Me give you cold food later." Which Shawn had to repair, cold food becoming ice cream, and Hank looked less terrified and embarrassed. He thought Carlton had some odd way of punishing him for not eating all that'd been put on his plate. Shawn assured him that Carlton's Ameslan was better than most people's, worse than some, and "you might have to get used to being afraid until he improves." Hank snickered, causing Carlton to whip around from dishwashing and wonder what they'd been saying behind his back.

Shawn stuck his hands behind his head, relaxed and unconcerned. "Nothing, Pooch." But he threw Hank a conspiratorial glance.

Due to his exciting day, Hank fell asleep in the car on the way to Nova Place. Shawn, who'd grown so high into his thirties that he could see the crest of forty, fell asleep in a car at the drop of a hat, if he were tired enough. Carlton, however, had trouble falling asleep in anything that moved. It vetoed Shawn's idea of ever getting a waterbed or a yacht. Carlton was the only one not yawning when the Ford stopped at the side of the street, about a block from the mansion.

As soon as he cast a glance at the surroundings, Hank plastered himself against the car. "Why are we here?" he signed frantically to Shawn and Carlton. "I don't want to be here."

"You know why," Shawn replied. "We're looking for what you were looking for when Gus and I found you: your mom's phone. But we have a weapon you didn't have that day." Shawn took out his phone and dialed the number Carlton had texted to him. He showed the screen to Hank, who immediately recognized the digits. It took him another second to relax visibly. When Shawn sent the call, he was dismayed and disappointed. "Just as you said, Lassie: straight to voicemail."

"Back-up plan," Carlton said. He opened the trunk and pulled out a seemingly giant monster of rails and boxes and circles. Carlton's high-end metal detector could find a cell phone—feasibly. With the sensitivity up as high as it would have to go, they'd run into a lot of other things, too. "It's going to be a long night."

He wasn't lying. Seeing Carlton's intention to labor intensely over the search for his mother's missing phone, a frenetic Hank signed that he'd tried looking for it around the mansion.

"So," Carlton concluded, "we'll keep our search perimeter outside the mansion's grounds."

Hank agreed that this was the best idea, if they were going to do this at all.

Carlton manned the device, drowning out the urban white noise with a pair of quality earphones, but even his ears grew tired of the incessant beeping. He found many things, including a bullet casing that he carefully stuffed into an evidence bag. Shawn had long ago ceased asking Lassie why he carried evidence bags around in their car.

Shawn was surprised at Hank's stamina. They walked up and down the whole block twice, and down in front of the mansion before Hank grew tired and pesky. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, he asked Shawn for a favor.

"Could I use your phone? I want to text someone back home."

"Friend?" Shawn asked, curious but not in the mood to tease Hank about his burgeoning love life.

"My friend Leighton," Hank concluded. "Best friend."

"Boyfriend?" Okay, Shawn _was _in the mood to tease—a little.

Hank threw him a bored, annoyed expression that every eleven-year-old knew how to do without even trying. In the ambient light of the city, street lamps and the occasional flaring porch sconce, Hank was blushing tremendously. Eventually, he nodded. "Boyfriend. So, can I? I haven't talked to him in days. I don't want him to think I don't care."

Gladly, Shawn handed his phone to Hank. He seemed no stranger to the iPhone, progressing through it rapidly, and his thumbs flew at the speed of light.

"Pooch," Shawn said, lifting his elbow to Lassie's side.

Carlton peeled headphones off. "Huh?"

"Hank has a boyfriend. His name's Leighton."

"Oh, God." His stomach churned. Hank was eleven! It was too soon for him to date! "It's too soon for him to date!"

"Relax, Pooch. We're not his parents—not his dad, anyway," Shawn said, as maudlin as he could get in the throes of being _right. _"Boyfriend, though, that's what he said. Unless he's making it up. Judging by the supersonic speed of his thumbs as he texts yonder beau Leighton, I don't think he's making it up. Still think my idea of Anabel's death having something to do with Hank is a bit off?"

"It's a bit pessimistic," Carlton admitted. "I don't know how _off _it is. Sadly."

He heard a particularly loud beep through the headphones. With several more swipes of the metal detector letting him hone in on the object, he sent Shawn down to dig in a flowerbed of one of the nice houses on Nova Place. Two doors south of the Hayworth mansion. As Hank looked on, his thumbs quiet for the first time in five minutes, Carlton set a hand to the back of the boy's head and gave it a little squeeze with his fingertips. Hank was enthralled by Shawn's proceedings, hoping it was his mom's phone—identically hoping it wasn't.

Shawn pulled something from the soft loam just as a yipping dog came out the front door of the home and nearly bit his arm off. He jumped up, making himself too big for the little terrier to attack.

"A Jack Russell. Well, that explains a lot," said Carlton. He spotted the mister and missus on the porch. "I'd better take care of the chatelains. Nice digging, cutie. You, too, Shawn."

"Ha, ha." Shawn put the chewed phone in the evidence bag Lassie had given him. He showed it to Hank, who nodded. If it turned out to be someone else's, at least he was sure it looked like his mom's.

"We'll drop it off at the police station before we go home," Shawn said, then changed the subject. "How's Leighton?"

No redness tinctured Hank's narrow cheeks a second time. "He's okay. Misses me. I have my own name-sign for him. I make up signs for the people I know well. Want to know what it is?"

"Of course."

Hank smiled and pulled at his forelocks, then swept a forefinger below those forelocks. "He has pretty hair."

"I'm jealous," Shawn said, smiling. "I thought I had the best hair."

"No, his is better. Sorry. But maybe I could come up with a sign for you and Carlton."

"You don't have to. I'm sure your dad will take you back home soon."

Hank failed to reply to the comment about going home. "Can I try the metal detector?"

Shawn handed it over. Hank once again proved he was a quick learner, sweeping the detector around the patch of grass and a bit of the wide street. Shawn thought he wouldn't find anything more than a couple of soda can tops dug into the street through the years, but when Shawn heard the machine beeping, in combination with a couple of serious marks of tire skids, he stopped Hank to check on the found treasure.

In the street, Shawn spotted a small, sparkling item, longer than his thumb and almost as wide. At Carlton's return, Shawn pointed the object out. Carlton fetched it from the gutter with his tweezers and made Shawn get a tiny evidence baggie from the car.

Carlton put the question of the earring's heritage to Hank. "Look familiar?"

He'd signed "Look correct?" but Hank was too distracted to think about it. "It's Mom's." He was rattled, bewildered.

Carlton put the earring in the baggie, adding it to the collection in his jacket pocket. "I think we should get a crime scene unit out here." His head tilted. "Again. I never thought of looking in the street. You call it in, Shawn. I want to go get a statement from the neighbors I was just talking to. And don't tell him anything," Carlton warned. He didn't want Hank more worried than he had to be.

Forensics was done in ninety minutes, but Shawn, Hank and Carlton had left far before that. Carlton still wanted to go to the police station before they returned home.

Relieved that he'd told Leighton at least a fraction of what'd been happening to him the last few days, Hank was far less tense for his second visit to the Santa Barbara Police Station. He swirled around in Carlton's chair. He studied the pencils. His nose caught a sweet smell, and unearthed one of Shawn's hidden candy bars. He peeled off a piece and put it back, just for the confusion it'd bring Shawn later. Shawn hadn't caught him doing it, either—at least it didn't seem that he had. For the majority of the last five minutes, Shawn had been caught up in snooping through a file he clearly wasn't supposed to be looking at (and therefore both of them were up to no good). Hank hit him with a small wad of paper, right near the eye, to warn him Carlton was coming. The file was hurriedly returned to its neat position on the stack Carlton had on his desk.

"Well, bad news is that the phone's severely damaged," Carlton said. "The good news is that if there's anything worth saving on the phone, we'll know by Monday."

"Monday?" repeated Shawn, disheartened. That was _way _more than a day away.

"That's the best we can hope to do at this point. Come on," his gestures and not his voice coaxed Hank away from the desk and toward the exit, "let's get out of here. It's a good thing you're not in school," he said to Hank, forgetting about the sign issue, and neither of them thought anything about it.

Shawn did, though.

-x-

If Juliet's phone rang any hour before dawn, it was considered to be a call too important to miss. She slapped around on the nightstand for the obtrusive object. Gus pretended not to hear it, but tossing his head under the pillow didn't stop the obnoxious trilling.

Juliet listened to a description from a strong female voice vaguely familiar. "Okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Without catching another word from Vick, Juliet ended the call. Rolling over, she plowed her forehead to Gus's shoulder. An exasperated huff escaped in the form of a groan. "Gus, are you awake?"

He waited a beat, hoping she'd ignore him and go back to sleep. That failed. She grabbed his wrist and made him slap his own face, a scheme that went back to when they'd briefly dated. "Fine, all right, I'm awake! Now _why _do you need me awake?"

Juliet bounced out of bed, being the bouncy sort, even at—no, Gus refused to look at the clock.

"That was Vick on the phone. They found something."

"And you want me to care?"

"It has to do with what you and Shawn are looking into."

Gus, who'd sprawled upon the bed, still torpid, still wishing for another couple hours of sleep, had a mere second's thought of what in the world his wife was going on about. Suddenly, his eyes flung open. He was out of bed. Juliet was already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. How she got changed so fast had always been a source of fascination to him, one he'd have to explore later. His brain wasn't meant to be put through such rigorous treatment at that ridiculous hour.

"Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"

"You'll see. Get dressed. We're both going."

Gus grabbed the shirt and trousers she'd thrown his way. A lot of time had passed since a case with Psych had woken him up at a predawn minute.

The sun hadn't quite come up when they reached their destination: a sandy stretch of beach just south of the city. Cops from several stations stood around. Vick was there, wearing a warm overcoat, a hat, and a sour expression. She traipsed her way to the two people who'd just stepped below the yellow tape.

"Sorry to get you out of bed," Vick started, "but I thought this was important."

"It's not the bed part so much," said Gus. "it's the Making Me Get Dressed and Out of My House part that's har—" He lost the words in a yawn.

"Why did you want us here, Chief?" Juliet sounded short-tempered.

Gus defended her. "She's not a morning person. If you can call this morning. It's more like nautical twilight."

Vick, without speaking, handed O'Hara a pair of powerful binoculars. She pointed to the horizon, where water and sky met.

Juliet looked, squinted at the spot with her uncovered eyes, and looked again through the binoculars. She handed the apparatus off to Gus. "How far out is that thing?"

Vick had her mouth open to answer with a guess, but Gus spoke instead.

"Three miles, maybe two-point-seven, two-point-eight." Both women regarded him with astonished expressions—and partly annoyed expressions, too. "Well, on average, the farthest you can see out to the ocean is three miles. Meaning that the horizon line is roughly three miles out from the beach. So that thing has to be less than three miles."

Juliet continued to stare. Gus thought she might've fallen asleep with her eyes open, like Shawn swore Vick could do. But she was having a hard time deciding if she'd married a genius or an ordinary man with an amazing amount of trivia that was often more useless than useful.

"Some fishermen out early this morning spotted it and called it in," said Vick. "They thought we might like to see it."

"Why would they be suspicious of a trunk bobbing around in the ocean?" Juliet's voice trembled. It was _cold _for an August morning. The wind was strong and tore right through her. Gus interpreted the petrified stance, throwing an arm around her to warm her up. "It's just a trunk to everyone else, isn't it? We never made the information about the trunks public all those years ago, not that I noticed when I was browsing the file the other day."

Vick had anticipated this question. "One of the fisherman on board is former SBPD sergeant Tony Ortiz."

Juliet's eyes widened, and Gus recalled the name, too.

"He was there that day—when they brought in the first trunk. I remember him being there," said Gus. "Him and Officer Grayson were both there that day. Is it the same trunk?"

"Ortiz thinks so," Vick replied.

"Which means that trunk is the one that belongs to Mrs. Glass," concluded Gus. His gaze snapped back to Vick. "Did you call Lassiter? Or Shawn?"

Instead of answering, Vick gestured to a spot behind them. Just crawling below the lifted tape, long legs, an overcoat and graying hair whipped to untidiness by the wind: Lassiter, awake if nothing else. But he had a drink tray with three beverages on it, two of them offered to Juliet and Gus. Juliet was so thrilled to have something hot to drink that she immediately tossed her arms around Carlton and squeezed.

"I thank you, too," Gus imparted to Carlton, "since I think you saved my wife from a mild case of hypothermia."

"Do we need to hug?" Lassiter opened an arm, but Gus stepped back.

"No, I'm good. Where's Shawn?"

"At home watching _Tom and Jerry_."

A confused Juliet shook her head. Would Shawn _never _stop slacking off? "He chose to stay home and watch cartoons rather than coming out here to see the third sea chest, the third chest that he _predicted_ existed back when he was what—twenty years old?"

"Eighteen," Lassiter corrected, remembering that past scene fondly. "And, no, he didn't _choose _to stay home. We just didn't want to bring Hank with us, and we didn't want to leave him home by himself."

Juliet's palm hit her forehead. "I forgot that he's been staying with you!"

Lassiter smiled tightly at his usual case partner. "Drink your coffee, O'Hara. So, Chief! How long until that thing out there makes landfall?"

"We're sending a boat out now. Maybe ten minutes. What did Shawn say when you told him?"

"He wasn't surprised. Just that he hoped Guster wasn't here and there was no goopy dead body inside. His very words. 'Goopy dead body.' I agree with him about that. Wonder what the chances are that it will be empty? Hey, is that Ortiz over there? I'm going to talk to him."

Twelve minutes later, Carlton, Vick, O'Hara and Gus gathered around the trunk while McNab finished picking away at the wax that glued the lid shut. Finally, the trunk lid was wrestled free. Its contents were exposed to the air and a dozen surrounding eyeballs.

Gus breathed easier. "No goopy dead body."

"But this is interesting," Carlton said. With a pair of tweezers in a gloved hand, he pulled from the water inside a knotted mess of kelp and thin strands. "I think it's human hair. I think it's Anabel Ingelow's hair."

-x-

Mrs. Glass had no trouble explaining her deal with groundskeeper, repairman and all-around fix-it guy Homer Bledsoe. She was happier when Burton Guster was joined by a sleepy-eyed and traditionally messy Shawn Spencer in the conference room at the SBPD. Having one gorgeous, well-dressed man was enough to please her, but having Mr. Spencer around added such a wondrous foil. She liked Detective Lassiter's bone structure, but he was far too old.

"You'd look younger if you dyed your hair," she offered, leaning slightly forward in the seat. The deep crease between ample breasts was on grand display. A shirt with a dangerous neckline came to breasts' aid. "Not a whole lot, mind you. Just enough to darken it up a bit, have a few sexy grays instead of way too many old-man grays. Also, applying a little petroleum jelly around the eyes will keep them from wrinkling so fast."

"Your advice would be very helpful if I were once again in the dating pool of this murderous little city," Carlton told her coldly, deadpan but strangely not annoyed. "Now, Mrs. Glass, you said that Mr. Bledsoe—"

"Homer, yes."

"Homer Bledsoe took the trunk from you five days ago."

"In the afternoon. He came in his car and took it off to that hovel of his. He lives in an abandoned car joint behind the Gypsy Drive Car Wash. Not the garage part, but the offices and stuff. He lives there. Fixes things up in the shop. I'm surprised you didn't ask him in here as well."

"We tried," Lassiter told her, "but we can't find him."

Mrs. Glass wrinkled her brow, moving her back into the seat. "Homer's always at home. If he's not at my house or that damn Hayworth place, he's at home. He's a hermit. Has no friends, knows no one. He's so off-the-grid he doesn't even get junk mail."

Shawn slipped around the room, arms crossed, thoughts circling as they usually did when he was close to figuring something out. "I'm sure you've done all you could for him, Mrs. Glass. But I sense that he still doesn't want your help. You keep him employed because you feel sorry for him, and he has just enough pride to let you throw legitimate work his way."

She blinked, afraid of the tears and her mascara running. It'd be a shame to let men see her with raccoon eyes. But falling into a kind of numb trance, she answered Shawn. "Yes, of course. I've always tried to help him—when he'd let me. He was happy to work on the trunk, though." Her frosty blue eyes practically tore through the detective. "Are you sure you looked at his hovel? He can get really drunk sometimes, and maybe he didn't hear you. He might've been passed out."

McNab, since he was working the case with Lassiter and learning _loads _more than he ever thought he would, came to a conclusion he was pretty proud of. "You're showing a lot of concern for your handyman, Mrs. Glass."

Mrs. Glass looked startled. The tears were out of her eyes but they were keeping her from breathing. "I've known him for years."

Shawn let out an airy laugh. "I'll just bet you have. You've known one another your _whole _lives, Mrs. Glass, because you're _half-siblings_."

Surprise flowed around the room. Mrs. Glass, knowing that Shawn Spencer was a psychic, failed to say anything. Gus made a mental note to ask Shawn how he'd figured that out, but later—when it wasn't so exciting in the conference room.

"But let's move on," Shawn said, waving a hand. "His being your half-brother doesn't have anything to do with anything right now. But you should probably tell him, Mrs. Glass. He'd like to know he's not completely alone in the world."

"Yes," she answered, getting weepy at the thought of her stupid older brother and his drunkenness, the waste of his life, "yes, I'll tell him. What else can I help you with? I told you all that I know about the trunk and how I let Homer have it. You don't think he threw it in the ocean, do you? What if he's been hurt himself?"

"I don't think your brother's involved," Lassiter said, trying to make her feel better while not lying out loud. The probability of Homer Bledsoe being guilty of something—murder or tampering with evidence—was increasing by the minute.


	12. Chapter 12

To bring the minds of three or four,  
or sometimes a gang of detectives to bear on a problem,  
is not only to disperse the interest and break the direct thread of logic,  
but to take an unfair advantage of the reader.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

12.

Lassiter was again away from his desk. Buzz was beginning to wish he had a way of pinning the detective to his chair. Every time Buzz swept through the first-floor section, he was disappointed to find his supervisor missing.

Hopeful, Buzz stopped in front of O'Hara. Her fingers flew over the heavy keyboard keys, but suspended mid-word when she felt his humble presence.

A quick glance at the empty chair across the room told Juliet what Buzz wanted. "I don't know where he is. He was hoping that Forensics would have the hair from the trunk matched with the hair from Anabel Ingelow."

Buzz nodded, but that's not exactly the info he wanted. "The chief says I should go over Mr. Bledsoe's hovel—I mean home—again. Maybe we missed something the first time."

"I have mountains of paperwork to get through, McNab, and this robbery case is just making my blood absolutely boil."

"That sounds painful," he replied, taking it a little more literally than he should've. "I know you're busy with that robbery and all, but I was thinking—do you think Shawn would go with me?"

Juliet's studious glance to a distant workspace concluded with a raise of her eyebrows. "Why don't you ask both Spencers to go with you? And find Kennedy. She needs more street time."

"Right," nodded McNab. "Thanks. And while I'm at it," he leaned into her slightly, lowering his voice if unable to entirely lower his height, "I'll see if I can butter up Shawn into looking at that robbery case."

Juliet tried not to be too happy at the idea. "Would you? Because it's just—it's just not in my wheelhouse at all."

He clicked his tongue, winked, and pointed at her. "You got it."

"That was so creepy," O'Hara said, frightened into a deadpan expression. "Don't do that again."

Buzz cleared his throat, trying to rid the air between them of awkwardness. At Mr. Spencer's desk, he paused. Shawn Spencer's father was a little old-school. He still preferred paper files and street work to utilizing anything that came off the computer. But, of course, Henry Spencer wasn't _exactly _a police officer, either. Buzz had heard from Lassiter that Spencer had retired far earlier than he should've. Buzz promised himself that he'd never cut his own career short—unless he had to, lest he end up emotionally embattled like Henry Spencer. Shawn, on the other hand…

"What is it, McNab?"

McNab was beginning to feel like Goldilocks: never quite finding the most comfortable place to be. For a nice and sunny Sunday in late August, everyone was in kind of a cranky mood. Except him, as usual. "Uh, just wondering if you and Shawn would like to take a look at Bledsoe's hovel—I mean home—" he was so embarrassed to have made the same slip-up twice in three minutes, "again. We might've missed something."

"Isn't Shawn still at home?" Henry glanced at Lassiter's empty desk, feeling a strange awareness of doing it, too. He so deeply associated Shawn with Carlton, and Carlton with Shawn, it was impossible to separate the two. "Where's Lassiter? It's his case. Take Kennedy with you. She needs more street time." He unwittingly repeated what O'Hara had said, returning to his file. Part of the file was Shawn's work into the Hayworth case. Shawn's important but eerily unfinished work.

Buzz lingered. "The thing is, Mr. Spencer—the thing is—is that I'm not naturally observant like you, and I'm definitely not psychic like Shawn. I might miss something. Again."

Unable to forgive himself if it turned out that way, Henry closed the folder and, standing, threw his suit coat over his arm. "Let me call Shawn and find out where he is. Although if he's anywhere other than at home in front of the TV, watching God knows what garbage with Hank Ingelow, I'd be surprised."

Buzz gave a small smile. He'd liked seeing Shawn and Carlton with Hank, and Shawn's ability to sign and Lassiter's comic inability to sign added a nice layer to the whole image.

Seconds later, though, Henry was cursing his son's lacking awareness. "He's not answering. That figures."

Buzz thought it was ironic. He wanted Shawn to go to the Bledsoe place to help see things that no one else could see, and Henry was berating his son for not realizing—through some psychic vibration—that he was needed. There hadn't been a parent-child duo at the Santa Barbara Police Department since 1973. And, back then, there were no cell phones that the parent could use to kick the kid into action.

By chance, they ran into Lassiter in the stairwell. He was coming up from one of the storage rooms on the ground floor, while McNab and Spencer the Elder were heading out the door.

"We're going back to the Bledsoe place. Do you know where Shawn is?" Henry suspected that Lassiter had a good guess, if he didn't know outright.

"Probably out shopping," answered Carlton. "He was going to get a few things for Hank. I'll go with you. I wanted to go back over there today, anyhow." But, like them, he'd been hoping that Shawn would tag along. It wasn't really Shawn's case, though, and he was better off—maybe—spending his time with Hank. It seemed like Shawn was the only one in Santa Barbara with the talent to keep Hank Ingelow from falling into silence.

He had information to drop off at his desk. Passing O'Hara, she stopped him for a Question and Answer session.

"Did you find McNab and Henry?"

"Yes. We're going to Bledsoe's."

"Did you get the results back yet on that hair found in the sea chest?"

"Yes." He let out a long, low breath. "It doesn't match Anabel Ingelow's."

"It _does_?"

"It does _not_," Carlton corrected. "Not a match. And there's no testable DNA, either. So. I've been welcomed back to Square One."

Juliet wasn't sure what to think of this. On the one hand, it made sense that it wasn't Anabel's. On the other hand, it brought another layer of mystery to the hair in the sea chest. "Shawn going with you over to Bledsoe's?"

"No." He failed to say why. "How's that robbery case coming along?"

But the look of exasperation and fatigue on her face was enough.

"I'll try again to get Shawn to look at it."

"McNab said he'd try, too. But I don't want you to bother. I don't want Shawn to revolt against crime-solving," she threw a little tantrum, "even though he's so, so ridiculously _good _at it!"

"I know," Carlton said quietly. "Want some good news?"

"I'd love some good news."

"The nickel rivet we uncovered on the street matches a missing rivet from the jeans in Zach Ingelow's jeans are being processed now as evidence. It means we get to hold him a little longer. At least it puts him near the place where she was found. And, what little he did say, he always denied being anywhere near the Hayworth place."

Juliet wasn't sure what to think of this, either.

Neither did Carlton. Somehow, someway, Zach Ingelow was involved in his wife's death. If they didn't find Nina Grayson soon, what would happen to Hank Ingelow? He tried to keep Juliet from hitting him with that very question. "Nothing in the crime lab will come through until tomorrow. I'll still see if I can get Shawn to look at that robbery case. You've been at it a week and a half. Sure you don't want to come with us? Might get your head away from it."

Juliet threw up her hands, rising. "Yeah, okay. McNab will think I don't know my own mind."

McNab thought no such thing, of course. He was pleased O'Hara had decided to come along to the Bledsoe hovel—he had no shame using the pejorative noun 'hovel' during his inner narrative. That Shawn was absent bothered him only a little. Shawn would've been nice to have around, but maybe, at that point, something like an accessory. McNab wished to have Shawn there because Shawn's presence was missed, and had been missed for months. Shawn's change of life following his long stint in the hospital, that was understandable. Everyone reacted differently to change. But after his phone conversation with Shawn, Buzz really thought Shawn had an answer—or the vague representation of an answer—seeping slowly into the foreground. Eventually, one of them would realize what was going on. Though it was usually Shawn who knew far ahead of everyone else.

The old Gypsy Drive Car Wash had fallen into a sorry state of disrepair. McNab, having done homework, discovered that the plot of land was actually owned by a distant Hayworth relation who now resided in Las Vegas.

"The taxes are paid on it and everything," related McNab. "It's all paid automatically out of an account at the local Central Coast Credit Union. Nothing really astonishing there. But yikes," he said, now noticing the run-down condition of the place.

"What a dump," Lassiter said. Glad to have something to focus on that didn't have to do with his relationship with Shawn or Hank Ingelow's future, Lassiter picked on Homer Bledsoe's choice of residence. "Who'd live here—voluntarily? I mean, you'd have to be a functioning alcoholic to want to come back to a place like this day after day."

Buzz thought that was true. "Bledsoe's been hospitalized three times going back ten years. He was arrested once in 1987 for a DUI. He never renewed his license after it expired later that year."

"Guess it's good he's refrained from hitting the roads all these years," Henry said. He gave a shielded compliment to McNab for his ability to dig into things. There was nothing wrong with Buzz's ability to commit to the hard work involved when on a case. Even at six feet and five inches, six-six in his shoes, McNab was no slouch.

Henry edged toward the door. It was a metal fire door upon which layers of exterior latex paint were peeling off. The plastic sign overhead had yellowed and cracked with age, exposing the hollow interior where fluorescents once burned in the dark. A stereotypical gypsy woman smiling next to red text announced the name of the joint. Beyond the window, patched here and there with plywood, Henry saw no gleam of light or representation of life within.

"I don't see anything," he announced. His knuckles let out a deadened knock on the fire door. He doubted it'd be answered.

Something was happening in Lassiter's mind, however. He wasn't paying much attention to Henry and O'Hara's attempts to get Bledsoe to answer. His mind flailed back upon the recent history, in a kind of seeable rewind. He stopped at one point, replayed what he'd heard—then shot his head to McNab. "Did you say he was arrested in Eighty-seven?"

"Yeah," Buzz said, not sure what had sparked the detective's interest. He handed over the tablet when Lassiter reached for it. "Eighty-seven."

Lassiter's thoughts flared, bright as fireworks. Knowing he'd not be able to reach Shawn by phone, he called the next best thing. "Guster, it's Lassiter."

Gus got a little nervous whenever Carlton called him in the middle of the day and sounded more than a bit tense. So that was pretty much every time Lassiter called. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Look, when was it that the first sea chest was on the beach? Do you remember?"

"Eighty-seven. In the summer."

"Do you remember any date other than 'in the summer'?"

"August. Or July. It was hot. Wait." Gus moved newer memories out of the way. He wasn't as great at the semi-eidetic memory thing, like Barbara Gordon or Shawn Spencer, but he did all right for himself. He'd been thinking more and more of that summer the last couple of weeks, too. In fact, most of his childhood was beginning to come back to him in waves of color, light and nostalgia. "Wait, it was the second-to-last weekend, because _Superman IV_ had just come out the day before. So it was a Saturday, I think. May I ask why this is relevant?"

Lassiter's eyes lit up. "Because Homer Bledsoe was arrested the night before that sea chest landed on the beach."

"So? It could be a coincidence."

"I'm hanging up now," Carlton said, borrowing one of Shawn's phrases. He did hang up, then gave the tablet over to Officer Kennedy. "You have the warrant?" he questioned both McNab and Kennedy.

McNab nodded, wondering what Lassiter was getting at with July '87 and Homer Bledsoe.

"Then let's get ourselves inside."

After no one answered Lassiter's announcement of who they were and who they were looking for, McNab didn't have to do much to get them across the dingy threshold: the door handle was unlocked and unbolted. The loose thing nearly came off in his hand. Gently, he lifted his grip while Lassiter, O'Hara and Spencer the Elder raced into the bleak hovel. The smells of ancient car polish and coffee hung thick in the stagnant air, but overpowering it all was the stale scent of alcohol. It was definitely the home of Mr. Bledsoe.

Officer Kennedy found him on a pile of blankets on the floor, in the next room over. He was unresponsive, his pulse weak. McNab eased the emptied bottle of cheap whiskey out of the old man's fingers before the emergency responders arrived.

-x-

From a distance, Shawn looked into the hospital room of Homer Bledsoe. Homer, still not entirely "with it" just yet, was no longer alone, at least. His half-sister sat next to the bed. The two held wrists, and Mrs. Glass looked plenty worried for the safety and care of her brother.

Shawn felt an awakening smack at his arm. "What?" he signed to Hank.

"What are you thinking? You look deep in thought."

Shawn had been thinking a whole mess of things. Where should he start? Hank, being like a miniature Shawn Spencer, would've preferred the pop-culture reference. "'Whatever Saves Me' by The Mary Onettes. It's a song. I'll give you the lyrics later."

"And," Hank paused, showing off his best impatient expression—his eyes were rich in expressions, "what else? I think they'll be all right. Were you thinking about my mother?"

"Your grandmother," Shawn confessed. "I'd like to know where she is—for your sake."

Disturbingly, Hank had no joyful response to this. "Grandma Nina had been acting all weird lately, anyhow. I thought she was going away somewhere for a while. She's done that before. Almost every year about this time."

The SBPD had never considered that Nina Grayson might've gone as far away as Timbuktu, or, for that matter, anywhere else along the once-prosperous trans-Saharan trade routes. Of course, she could be somewhere really remote and terrible when she was needed the most.

"Don't worry about it," Hank signed. "I'm not worried. I'm happy with you and Carlton."

"Thanks. We like having you, too. But that's not really the idea."

"I know," Hank said, shearing short the rest of his impressions of Grandma Nina. Another glance at Mrs. Glass and Homer the handyman, Hank thought they were still better off than he was. And Homer might've seen something that he hadn't wanted to—like the death of Anabel Ingelow. Hank rather doubted it.

"Stay close," Shawn told him. "I want to talk to Carlton and my dad for a minute. Wait." He fished his phone from his pocket and gave it to Hank. "Talk to Leighton. I'll be right back."

Carlton and Henry were in the middle of a conversation, so Shawn checked on Hank over his shoulder. The kid must've gotten a hold of his faraway boyfriend, as his thumbs were flying at nearly supersonic speed. The celerity of young love…

Shawn heard how Carlton had realized that Homer Bledsoe had been given a DUI the night that the first sea chest had shown up. At first, Shawn laughed, then, "—in Nineteen Eighty-Seven!" slipped out of his mouth with a fascinating and shocked boom in it. Carlton was surprised to find Shawn so unsure that the two situations were connected. "That was a long time ago, Lassie," Shawn tried to sound reasonable. "Is it on record _where _he was stopped for this DUI?"

"I haven't gotten that far yet," Lassiter said, choking on the words. He coughed a little. "O'Hara is looking into it. _She _thinks it's likely that the two things are connected. Unlike some people. And it's not like the liquor sponge in there is saying much."

"I doubt he remembers yesterday," Henry said, "let alone more than twenty-five years ago."

"I admit that it's a stretch, but it's the biggest lead we've had in the trunk case since—since forever," said Carlton. Why were the Spencers so obstinate sometimes? And why did he care? He was still the only cop standing in that circle of three. Shawn obviously had his reasons, but Carlton wouldn't hear them until later. "I'll tell you what I find out from O'Hara later, Shawn."

Shawn dove into a thoughtful pause. "Is she still working on that robbery case?"

"Armed robbery on Santa Rosa a week and a half a go. She wants you to look at it, if you can. It's been bothering her for more than nine days."

"The robbery was nine days ago?"

Carlton and Henry understood the implications of Shawn's question. He was picking up some obscured, marred and clandestine piece of information that they'd been blind to. Even Henry couldn't see it. Then again, the skills he'd imbued in Shawn had taken on a development far greater than he'd imagined at the onset so long ago.

"Ah, never mind," Shawn said, laughing and throwing his hands their way. "I'll stop by later, Lass, see if I can help Juliet and, if you're very good, take you for an ice cream cone. It'd be my second ice cream confectionery yumminess of the day, but I'm willing to put my stomach in jeopardy to show how much I love you—through the scientific wonder of soft serve."

Lassiter was amused and bothered. Once upon a time, he might've disbelieved the ice-cream-cone part—but now he was rather sure Shawn meant it. When Shawn turned back to Hank, the two of them entering their own private discourse, Lassiter shot a question to Henry. "Do you know what that was about?"

"I assume he's made some connection between the robbery that's been driving O'Hara nuts and Anabel Ingelow's death. But I don't know what that connection is. Didn't you say that robbery was on Santa Rosa?"

"The five-hundred block," Lassiter replied automatically, "right across from—" He froze, and all blood seemed to recede from the tips of his extremities; the back of his neck overheated. "It's right across the street from the St. Francis School for the Deaf."

Carlton felt like face-palming. Instead, he ran toward the lobby to stop Shawn from getting into the elevator. He was in time to see the doors shut on Hank and Shawn. But Shawn caught his look. A few seconds later, Carlton's phone blurted with a text message from Shawn.

"Way to go, Pooch! I knew you'd figure it out! ilu!11"


	13. Chapter 13

The detective himself, or one of the official investigators,  
should never turn out to be the culprit.  
This is bald trickery...  
It's false pretenses.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

13.

There was a delay getting Hank back to the house after their day of frolicking around Santa Barbara. (Shawn _had _enjoyed, perhaps too much, showing Hank some of his favorite city sites.) A desk sergeant informed Shawn that "Sheridan Ingelow's belongings are no longer property of the SBPD," and he was free to haul them out of Evidence hock.

Hank showed little emotion regarding the return of his goods, perhaps repulsed by the fact that everything within his small suitcase had been tagged, ogled, examined and otherwise put through the wringer. Meanwhile, Shawn kept his sharp talent for observing. He soon caught sight of a t-shirt that might mean something to the investigation. He made note of it, sure that he wouldn't forget to play it out in front of Lassie as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

And he stopped Hank from disregarding the case for two hearing aids. Hank explained why he wasn't wearing them. "I'm a child," he said with obvious scorn for still being eleven when he now felt much older than that, "and I grow. Hearing aids don't."

"But you can hear?"

"Just low decibels," Hank replied. "I only wore them when I was at dance. It helped. But it's not really anything to get excited about."

It did excite Shawn, but he understood Hank's reluctance to wear them. Hearing aids, if they didn't fit right, could be annoying and painful. And they had the drawback of being expensive to replace.

Shawn's mere wish was that he could fix _everything _for Hank Ingelow. All he and Lassie could do was make him as comfortable as they could while the situation righted itself.

Seeing and holding his things again, Hank was reminded of how much he'd gone through, and how different everything was since he'd packed that bag several long days before. Might've been years for all he felt connected to it.

"They don't even seem like my clothes," he signed to Shawn, clearly melancholic. He held up a Spiderman t-shirt, then threw it in the luggage. "I don't even think I could wear that now."

"You feel," Shawn paused, considering, "—older?"

"Very," returned Hank.

Shawn messed up Hank's rowdy hair. It was all right for the kid to feel he'd tacked on a few years since his arrival in Santa Barbara. Come the questions Lassiter would have for Hank later, a few months will probably be added to those years. But there was no way Hank could've known that his mother was planning to send him to the St. Francis School for the Deaf. Hank, forthcoming with all the information he knew regarding his life the last two weeks, never mentioned that his mother was thinking of sending him to Santa Barbara. It was possible Anabel Ingelow meant to stay there, get her son into a good school, and find a job for herself. Life could've been nice for them. Maybe Zach Ingelow had another plan, one that didn't include having his son halfway across the country.

Back at the house, Shawn caught another glimpse of Hank's developing maturity: Hank wanted to do his own laundry. With a few simple instructions, Shawn let him have at it. With Hank sorting darks from lights, Shawn slipped into the backyard to dial Lassie.

It'd seemed a long time since Carlton had heard Shawn say, "I had a vision…"

When Shawn spouted those words to him, Carlton wasn't sure if he should be relieved or ask Shawn if he'd had _too much _ice cream.

"All right," Carlton vetoed any notion of teasing Shawn, "what was it? And are the two of you finally home now?"

"We're finally home. It was on the way home that I had my vision."

Which wasn't a lie. He'd had his "vision" standing in the Evidence department of the SBPD, but he was on his way home when suddenly detouring into the SBPD. See, now, was that really a lie? Maybe just gently pulling the truth slightly out of proportion—a little—like taffy. A taffy lie, then.

Before his mind raced into the gloriousness of the sweet, sweet taffy sold at Platypus Park, in adorable little platypus-shaped baskets to boot, Shawn recalled the feelings he'd had while Hank rifled through clothes.

"I've seen Nina Grayson," Shawn said, keeping his voice flat, as ethereal-sounding as he could make it. "I see her surrounded by redness—red stones, red rocks, with aliens watching her."

"Aliens?" queried Carlton, appropriately incredulous. It'd been ages since Shawn had cited alien visitors in his visions. "What kind of aliens?"

"Oh, the standard, run-of-the-mill aliens, I suppose. You know, gray flesh, triangular heads, enormous black eyes that are like dark, dark pits of emotionless _doom_. Aliens."

"What else?" Carlton wasn't writing these insights down, but the red rocks part was interesting, at least far more geographically possible than aliens with pit-like eye sockets. "Anything else?"

Shawn struggled to think of what other words might say what he wanted to say without giving it away. "I see—lots of people getting splattered with mud on their gross and disgusting naked bodies—ew—"

"I'll try to help you erase that one later."

This cracked Shawn's concentration. "Really?"

"Really. So a bunch of people getting splattered by mud and liking it. Maybe you're seeing a mud bath."

_There you go, Lass_, Shawn thought to himself. "Yeah, that might be it. It could be a spa. Where the sunsets are pretty and the spiritual atmosphere is something that calls to the very soul of me."

"I can't do anything about callings of the soul," admitted Carlton. "But if you could narrow it down a little, Shawn. There are millions of spa places in this country."

"Wait, I'm getting something else," but only because he was on the Macbook looking at things the city was famous for. "I'm having trouble breathing—and I feel like my skin is withering—I'm turning into a raisin! Ah—! I'm getting all pruny!"

Carlton wasn't impressed. "I'll bake you into some cookies when I get home. So, you're saying it's dry. A desert."

"Yes, a desert. Famous for its aliens and its etheric mojo."

Five years ago, maybe even less than that, Carlton wouldn't have had a clue what "etheric mojo" was and why it was important. Now that he knew, he still didn't really understand why it was important but at least he had a better idea of what it was. "Anything else?"

Shawn had been a little wrong about the aliens. For some reason, he'd thought the city he was thinking of was in New Mexico, not Arizona. Ah, well, that clue would leave Carlton scratching his head, and sometimes that wasn't a bad thing. "A university of weirdness. A weird university. Where people study the unusual and the improbable."

It was too easy, because Shawn had just mentioned it in an article not too long ago. "You're talking about the University of Metaphysics in Sedona, Arizona." Statement, not question. "Your vibes are telling you that Nina Grayson is in Sedona, Arizona?"

"It's worth looking into."

"Considering we haven't heard a peep from her at all, yeah, it's worth looking into! Thanks," Carlton tried not to sound too saccharine, "and I'm glad you're having helpful visions again."

"I'm also having a vision of you getting home soon and the three of us having a nice dinner."

"Psychic vision or wishful thinking?"

"It's just way too hard to tell."

"I'll stop somewhere and get us food."

"No fish."

"Yes, I know your aversion to getting anything with fins at a restaurant. How about Asian? Shrimp-less Asian, I mean."

"Yeah, that should be fine. Did you find any enrollment information for our boy at St. Frankie's?"

"Not yet. I sent Kennedy and McNab to the school to ask about it."

"I bet Jules was annoyed that her case and your case turned out to be connected."

"Annoyed? Not quite the word. Gobsmacked is more like it. She thinks Anabel Ingelow had second thoughts about the school when she heard about the robbery. Hank doesn't seem to have a clue that his mom was thinking of enrolling him there."

"He's utterly clueless, yes. At least about the school. Quite on top of everything else, though. Did you know he was a dancer?"

"A dancer? What do you mean?"

Shawn gave a brief explanation about the hearing aids, the fact that Hank had mentioned dance class. "He's got the moves, too. He knows every dance in _Glee_. Mostly the Kurt parts, though. He's totally handicapable."

"I didn't doubt it for a second. But I gotta go, Shawn. I want to get on this Sedona lead."

Not long after Shawn hung up with Lassie, his phone blurted to life and he answered a call from social worker Kat. It was a good thing Kat felt so well about herself and about life in general, since she asked Shawn if she could talk to Hank. But the lightbulb shone brightly as soon as Shawn started pointing out that the conversation would be very one-sided. Good-natured about the gaffe, Kat continued with plans to get together later in the week, "or when Hank's grandma shows up," she added, "whichever comes first."

Shawn couldn't supply a comment on Nina Grayson ever showing up, or what would happen when she did. Psychic or not, he sensed there was something really off about former Officer Grayson.

Thoughts like those, with a contagion of unhappiness and strangeness, superseded the calmness of his day. He and Hank watched _My Little Pony_ reruns, which brought them around to cartoons, which brought them around to watching _Toy Story_. It helped restore balance to Shawn's mindset, though not as splendidly as Carlton did when he finally sauntered through the back door. Severely laden with takeaway sacks from their favorite hovel of Asian cuisine, so splendid that they chose to look the other way when the two of them once spotted a cockroach tiptoeing across the floor, Carlton was eager for helping hands. Hank took two sacks into the kitchen.

Shawn aided Carlton out of his jacket, then clung to him for a long time. The top of his head was petted and kissed.

"Want good news—or some not-so-good news?" Carlton let Shawn stay where he was, but sidled closer to the bistro table to dump his wallet and keys. He rubbed Shawn's shoulders and back, really working his palms into the tight hills of muscles. A soft moan was his nice reward.

"Good news."

"Anabel Ingelow _had _contacted St. Francis about enrolling one Sheridan Henry Ingelow. However, St. Francis said that Mrs. Ingelow was only interested in talking to the school to find out of it would be a fit for Hank. No immediate enrollment."

"Do they have open enrollment, or only at certain times of the year?"

"Gosh," Lassiter said, bobbing his eyes back and forth between Shawn's, "I didn't think to ask."

"No big deal. Just my imagination running away from me." Shawn slipped away, starting to sing the song that went with the lyrics "Just my imagination…" The Temptations song, not the song by the same name written and performed by The Cranberries. A fine song itself, just not a classic.

Lassie wandered into the kitchen after Shawn's sashaying dance groove and Hank's uneven, abrupt laughter. As plates came down from the cupboard, and silverware clanked against the bistro table, Carlton started asking them how their day had gone.

-x-

Shawn had to return to work the next afternoon. As nothing was coming in about the case, though Lassiter and Juliet were trying their hardest, Shawn and Hank moseyed to the country club stalls. Hank found the horses interesting, their stink tolerable in the wind-blown barn, and tried to learn as much about polo as his restless mind would let him. Eventually, Shawn conceded the loss of Hank's interest in polo. He let Hank wander around, warning him to stay clear of strangers, the forested area off to the left, and the nearby golf course. If a golfer out there yelled FORE!—Hank wouldn't hear it. The last thing everyone needed was Hank getting doinked in the head by a golf ball. How would Shawn explain that to the former Officer Grayson? Or Kat? Or Lassie? He didn't even want to try.

In the middle of the wet task of bathing one of the polo ponies, Shawn's duty was warmly interrupted by the unprecedented arrival of Timothy Westcott.

"You're looking awfully roguish this afternoon, Timmy." Shawn thought he did, too, his Ralph Lauren shirt with a few buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, trousers looking a bit wrinkled. Tim's hair had deflated a good half-inch from its usual upward swoop. "Rough day?"

"Almost."

"You could have it as bad as Frisky. I just cleaned gunk out of his manhood."

Tim was forced to crack a grin at that, but it soon disappeared. "Can we talk for a second?"

Good talk, or bad talk? Shawn sensed bad talk. After tying up Frisky in a sunny spot to finish drying under a lightweight blanket, Shawn followed Tim to a quiet place between barn and paddock. The two leaned against the wooden fence post. Its view was the woodsy bit between polo field and the dogleg of the Fourth Hole. Though Shawn Spencer rarely had an association with 'patience,' he exhibited a connection to it while waiting for Tim to open up. It helped that Shawn's mind was full of its own turmoils he preferred to deal with in silence. When Tim started talking about how quiet it was and what a nice evening it'd be for a ride, Shawn interrupted him.

"I'd ride with you, if you want, but you have to tell me what's bothering you."

Tim didn't make a joke about Shawn Spencer's other occupation as a psychic. He was too nervous to show an ounce of wit. Why should he be nervous? What was any of it to him?

"Shawn."

"Tim," Shawn echoed Westcott's severe timbre. Regardless of his predilection to weave humor into everything, he stifled it—at least as much as he could—knowing that Timothy Westcott was very troubled. "What can I do for you? Need a psychic reading? Want to know if your girlfriend is cheating on you? Want to know who's going to win the next polo match?"

"I saw something," Timothy blurted out, then blinked slowly, exhaled slowly.

"Saw something. Something—something portentous and ominous? That kind of something? We're not talking fluffy-bunny something, I take it. Well, what did you see? Can I help? I want to help. I sense that I can help you."

Tim's palm rubbed his forehead gently, trying to get rid of the vision his eyes had caught the other morning. "I-I was out late—or early, really—and that happens sometimes because I don't always sleep well. And when I don't sleep well, I just get in the car and I drive. I have this route that I take, out the 101, through the canyon and up until you get to Gaviota. I parked at one of the headlands, and down in the water I saw a boat. With people on the boat. And they were dumping something in the water. I don't know if it was a body or what, but—"

"But you definitely saw it." Shawn's first thought was fisherman with a big catch of a cove fish that they then released. Fishermen liked to be out as early as possible, as early as Tim suggested. If it was just fishermen, Tim wouldn't be nearly as disturbed. "What do you think they were dumping?"

"I-I don't know."

"Large or small?"

"Smaller than a body," Tim clarified, figuring they should just get that out of the way. It wasn't like he just stepped into the plot of a Wes Craven film. "But it was big. It had a lot of mass. It took up a lot of space. Because it took two of them to lift it over the side of the boat."

Shawn zipped his gaze into the woods. The trunk. Could it be the sea chest? Tim had seen people dumping the trunk into the water? Since the SBPD hadn't been clear about what'd made its recent appearance on the shores of Arroyo Burro Beach, Tim didn't know of the trunk's existence. "We should probably tell this to the police. No, don't freak out," he gave a wave of his hands at the look on Westcott's face. "We can go to Carlton and my dad and you can tell them what you've told me. It'll be fine. They'll be able to help you. More than I can help you, that's for sure."

Tim didn't require a lot of persuading. He was grateful enough for Shawn's help that he drove them over to the police department himself. Hank felt out of place in Tim's luxury car—he'd never been in a Jaguar before, and certainly not one with computer tablets lodged into backs of the front seats. Hank satisfied his boredom by looking at everything in the car, and boldly asking Mr. Westcott (by way of Shawn) if he knew anyone famous. It lightened the mood, but Hank had grown used to ignoring or eliminating the tension between adults. He figured that if everyone would just laugh a little more, the world would be a better place. It seemed to work for Shawn and Carlton. His parents hadn't tried. He wasn't sure about Grandma Nina.

He started to hurt inside his chest. The gravity of misery and loneliness pressed against him. He pushed it out of the way long enough to be distracted by their arrival at the police station. It was always a lively place, lots of movement, lots of shifting lights and colors, vibrations and smells. When Carlton spotted their approach, Hank felt a surge of pride and comfort and understanding, like what it was to come home. He hugged Carlton for a second, just because he was eleven, because he was never going to grow too old to stop hugging people he cared about. While Carlton left a peck on Shawn's cheek, Hank stole Carlton's chair. He checked for the half-munched candy bar taped to the underside of the desk. Evidently, Shawn had discovered it, since the new note on it now read: HA HA NICE ONE KIDDO! with a smily face emoticon, a small heart next to it. Whether it would spoil his dinner or not, Hank ate the rest of the candy bar. Even if they'd caught him eating it, he was pretty sure neither Shawn nor Carlton would've reprimanded him for it. They still understood what it was like being a kid, and they didn't hold his youth against his character.

Shawn left Hank with his phone, in case he wanted to play a game or text Leighton while he waited. Hank chose to text Leighton. Texting was all right, but he was beginning to miss the sight of Leighton, signing with him, smiling with him, kissing him a little, and the way his hair swooped across his forehead with such precision that Justin Bieber failed to compare. Shawn needed to get FaceTime or something so Hank could talk to Leighton, vis-a-vis. If he stayed long enough.

"I really like it here," he texted to Leighton.

Leighton's yellow text bubble appeared. "I can tell... I miss u tho"

"Yeah, I miss u2"

"When r u coming back?"

"IDK… soon"

"Good… we'll plan something nice"

Hank looked up when Shawn stopped in front of Carlton's desk. The expression on Shawn's face… Hank's throat started to tighten. "I g2g omg…" Brainlessly, Hank catapulted from the chair and gave Shawn his phone back. When Shawn inched over, Hank met the wondering eyes of his grandmother.

His heart turned over in his chest. It fell straight down to his toes and cowered there.

Grandma Nina. She was there.

To be sure the end hadn't come just yet, Hank sent a silent question to Shawn. But the way Shawn touched him lightly on the shoulder—the way Carlton looked like someone had just stained his favorite Italian silk tie—Hank knew it was over. His grandmother was going to take him away.

And probably kill him. Just like she'd killed his mother.

He didn't have a choice. He'd have to run for it.

-x-

Everyone watched Hank sprint from the room, and disappear somewhere in the front of the building. No one could stop him. They were too stunned to move.

"Well, what—"

But Shawn's questioned deadened at the tip of his tongue, right when his throat banged into a lump of fear and comprehension. He shot the voiceless explanation to Lassie. _Hank doesn't want to see his grandma. _The pained expression returned to him spoke a whole volume of awareness; Lassie got it, too. Shawn saw a thousand and one regrets wound the former Officer Grayson. Hank's fleeing at the sight of her cinched together everything she'd feared.

Carlton didn't require Shawn's mixture of magic, intuition and observation to utter the command. "McNab, take Ms. Grayson into custody. We'll be having some words with her."

McNab, nonplussed but accommodating, put Nina Grayson in handcuffs. With Dobson as another escort, they removed her to an interview room.

After a momentary silence, in which his kneecaps actually felt like water, Carlton vaulted himself into action. "Henderson, take Mr. Westcott's witness statement. Kennedy, go to the parking lot and get everything out of Nina Grayson's car. And somebody, for the love of God, get down to the harbor and find the boat rented to dump that sea chest—now!"

Officers in navy scattered. Officers in plain-clothes likewise hurried away, either to do what they could or at least pretend they were doing something important to keep Lassiter from biting their heads off.

Shawn found him entirely unapproachable. He had a vision—not a psychic one, just a plain vision—of what Carlton would be like in a few hours, when this was over, when they were at home and eating a late dinner on the patio. The two of them—though now it was the three of them—though Shawn didn't mind the perpetuity of Hank Ingelow's presence at Chez Sunberry. Shawn wanted to squeeze love and humanness back into Carlton, but there was a lot of suffering going on. They were upset by the fact that a cop had committed an unthinkable act. They were upset for Hank's sake.

Shawn was on the verge of telling Carlton he was going to find Hank, but Carlton's agitated tap at the top of his desk preceded a grumbled announcement.

"The only thing I can't figure out is how the sea chest fits in. Why dump it in the ocean?"

"The hair inside it wasn't Anabel's."

"No." He recognized and appreciated Shawn's blank look into the middle-distance. "What?"

"I don't think they had anything to do with the sea chest. But, as for everything else, they'll tell you. Just by looking at Grayson right now, she can't fight anymore. Zack Ingelow, on the other hand…" Shawn gave Carlton's arm a small hug with his hands, rested his cheek against Carlton's sleeve for a second. He felt Lassie relax, just for a moment. It was long enough, though. "I'm going to find Hank."

Carlton let him go. As with all his cases the last eight months, Shawn was a part of them—but not a significant part. He offered few insights. Yet if Shawn hadn't been around, the cogs in the investigative wheel would've gotten stuck a long way back. Carlton couldn't guess what might've happened to Hank if Shawn and Gus hadn't stumbled upon him at the abandoned Hayworth place.

Carlton needed a moment to clear his head of harsh thoughts, his heart of disagreeable feelings. He didn't even want to _think _about the possibility of Hank seeing and knowing more than he should. When he'd grown composed, as much as he could in this situation, he grabbed wares required to interview Nina Grayson. In Interview Room A, though, Carlton tossed the paraphernalia to McNab. "Have at it," he said, and sat in another chair. He tried to act a bit more like Shawn: aware, part of things, but just slightly removed from the maelstrom.

It took Shawn a lot longer than it should've, at least for a self-titled psychic, to find Hank Ingelow. Hank must've gone to the ground floor, and started to hide there. Aware that they were bringing his grandmother down, he swept around the creepy back hall and up the secondary staircase to the first floor. Once oriented with his location, he snuck into the only room that he knew and felt comfortable: the video room. Shawn found him there. Hank's head was collapsed against the crook made by his elbow, face to the top of the table. Before taking a seat, Shawn grabbed a few paper towels off the counter. He thought the whole tabletop would have to be mopped up, but Hank looked asleep more than upset.

Shawn let his hand drape over the boy's cowlick, where a few hairs defied the conformity of style-gel and went their own independent way. Hank didn't raise his head immediately. Seconds—multiple tens of seconds—went by. The problem was that they couldn't exactly _talk_ to one another if they weren't _looking_ at one another.

So, Shawn waited. He petted the cowlick, he patted Hank's back. While silence reigned in the tree-house-like video room, Shawn hoped that everything a floor below was zipping along nicely. But, oddly enough, he didn't really want to know. He didn't want to know how Hank's mother had died. From Shawn's point-of-view, he'd solved as much of the case as he could've. And he was confident that Nina would confess. Whatever had happened that night in front of the Hayworth house on Nova Place, it'd resulted in Anabel's death and a failed attempt to cover it up. Shawn could imagine that there'd been a massive argument, probably involving Anabel and Zack about their separation, their impending divorce, and how she wanted to move back to Santa Barbara, bringing Hank with her, enroll him in St. Francis. But whatever had happened, Anabel had died. Heart failure or murder—it didn't matter. Shawn had always hoped—too strongly, of course—that Hank had been at the hotel that morning, sound asleep. Shawn's wish for this had been so strong that it nearly knocked the possibility of it into extinction.

Hank raised his head suddenly. Shawn saw that he was resigned to what had occurred, but he wasn't crying. His nose was slightly red and his eyes slightly watery, but he was holding it in. The only time he cried was at night—Shawn had heard slight weeping muffled behind the closed door, but he hadn't said anything about it, hadn't done anything to help Hank shift through the turbulence of grief. In that way, Shawn felt he'd rather let Hank down. Shawn would have to talk to Kat, get Hank into some kind of counseling—or maybe all of them could go—him, Hank and Carlton, and—

"I saw what happened," Hank signed. He hiked his eyes and sighed. "I sort of saw what happened to my mother," he paused, a pained and confused look on his face, "that morning."

Shawn held himself still, aware that his throat was tightening and he was beginning to crack. It just hardly seemed fair—not even a little bit fair. Entirely unfair, in fact. Shawn, supportive, tried to bring Hank the greatest comfort he could. "Do you want me to get a cop in here? Juliet—or Dobson? Or both?"

Like everyone else in the precinct, Hank liked Dobson—and naturally had no aversion to O'Hara. Shawn wasn't sure Juliet was in the building, but by some miracle she was. "Your dad called me to come in," she said, voice thin with worry. "Where is he? Hank?"

"In the video room." Shawn started heading that way, pausing in his steps for Juliet to leave car keys in her desk. Juliet must've seen a glint of how unsettled he was. She grabbed his hand and squeezed. "I can keep it together," he said, determined to sound like it was gospel. "I knew there was—" But he stopped, shook his head, and felt that flaccid feeling come over him. "No, I don't know—I _didn't _really know."

"It'll be all right." Juliet kicked up a smile.

"Ah, Jules, I wish I had your Libra optimism."

"It's not optimism, Shawn. It's my Libra sense of justice. By the way, do you know where Nina Grayson was?"

"Sedona," he answered, not even bothering to put the "C" to the side of his head. "Which I've recently discovered is _not _in New Mexico."

"Yeah," Juliet grumbled, "Sedona. The one in Arizona. Says she got a guilty conscious and came back here. Guilty conscious about something, that's for sure. Don't mention any of this to Hank."

"My hands are sealed." He shoved them in his pockets to show Jules he wasn't going to do any unwanted signing.

"All right. Good. We'll tell him when we have more information. He's got enough going on right now."

Her heart did a major flip-flop when she saw Hank in the video room. He looked strange, not quite like himself. It struck Juliet what it was: He looked _older_. This would mature him beyond the level of an average eleven-year-old. She sat across from him. Dobson was next to her, having to fix his belt so it wasn't cutting into his ever-uncertain waistline. He, too, emoted the same unhappiness and heaviness of his compeers and Hank Ingelow. And with an almost simultaneous intake of breath, Hank started to sign, Shawn started to interpret—and the tale of that awful morning unwound.


	14. Chapter 14

To end an odyssey of sleuthing with such an anti-climax  
is to hoodwink the trusting and kind-hearted reader.

**S.S. Van Dine  
**_20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories_, ca. 1928

-x-

14.

The next day, Shawn took out the Norton, blew the literal dust (and pollen) off, and revved his way to the hospital. Homer Bledsoe was none-too-thrilled to see psychic Shawn Spencer shadowing his hospital room's already dour doorway. Mrs. Glass, however, remained reluctantly pleased to see Mr. Spencer. She'd heard about the arrests that morning; it was in the paper and on the news.

Shawn, who hadn't slept well, an hour here and there, came to inform Homer that he wasn't going to be charged with anything. "Like the summer of 1987, Homer, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And even you couldn't quite figure out the secrets of the sea chests."

"Those are the Hayworths' sea chests," croaked the old man, in a very Tom Waits style.

Shawn gave him a small, uneven grin. The Hayworth sea chests. Yes, they were that. "I also know that you were convinced that one of the Hayworths—probably a bastard Hayworth—was going to claim those sea chests eventually. With the bodies found in two others, you had to do something with the third before it, too, ended up with a body in it."

"Relax, Homer," Rita said to her half-brother, who'd formed fists at Spencer's inglorious provocation.

"But I can't take listening to him talk about the Hayworths as though they were cheap and mean and—"

"You were only doing what the Hayworths asked you," Shawn said.

Homer's face lost its hostility. Instead, he became sad, forlorn, and tired of the old secrets of a nearly extinct clan. "But that last one was different. Always was."

Shawn picked up the clue. "Each sea chest has a special purchase code on the inside of its lid. A manufacturer's label. In the first two sea chests, dumped in 1987 and 1994 respectively, those manufacturer's labels were whole. In the third, though, it was not. Probably hasn't been in—what—forty years?"

Homer's tense, wrinkly face slackened slightly. He shifted uncomfortably. "I guess if anyone's got a right to know, it's you, Shawn Spencer. You gave your blood to them, too. Just like I did." He gave a look to Rita, then back to Shawn to finish his statement. "I knew after the first two chests were used like they were that I should do something to protect the third one. So I ripped out the label myself. I gave it to Westcott. Not—not the Westcott that's running around out there now. But his dad. But you really oughta ask your friend Westcott about that. He's probably got a pretty good idea of his pop's origins. And I bet that Westcott has that missing label. I don't know who killed those people and put them in the sea chests, and I never opened them. Just dumped them. Like I was asked by Mrs. Hayworth—Olivia, the last to live in that mansion. I was a good and loyal employee all those years. But I don't know anything about those dead bodies. Doubt Mrs. Hayworth did, either. Your Westcott friend doesn't know anything about the sea chest."

"When you knew you had to get rid of it, you dumped its debris into the fountain at the house."

Homer nodded meekly.

Which would explain how a tiny piece of old kelp got into Anabel Ingelow's lungs. Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow would have a hard time explaining themselves once Defense pointed out that Anabel had been dragged to the fountain and left there, to make it look like an accidental drowning.

Homer didn't want to get anyone else in trouble, let alone that decent boy Tm Westcott. "Just so you know, I dumped that chest on my own. Me and Rita. We did it."

Shawn had a pretty good idea of who'd shoved those bodies in there, who'd left them in the ocean to rot and decay. It didn't matter. Waylon Scobie was dead, as were those he'd killed to protect his secrets—including Rufus Waterstone. Shawn tried to explain to Rita and Homer how it didn't matter that they'd dumped the sea chest. "The hair in it didn't match Anabel Ingelow's, but it'd probably match yours, Rita."

"Am I going to be charged with something?"

"Maybe fined," Shawn said shortly. "A small fine for ocean-dumping. And speaking of Westcott—you know that he wants to buy the Hayworth house and turn it into a museum."

Rita looked interested. Homer brightened.

"Does he, now? That's a sensible idea. I'd love to see the place get all fixed up."

"He'll probably need a hand getting the grounds prepared," Shawn said, making no promises but tossing it out there. Homer would never be well again, though he might stay healthy and sober long enough to help Tim Westcott fix the mansion's gardens.

Homer appreciated the idea, smiling a little at the thought. It might give him something to fight for, seeing that house back to its original splendor. "But what happened to that lady they found dead there at the house? And her son? What happened to the boy?"

Shawn pretended that he had an appointment by checking the clock in the room and leaping toward the door. "Take care of him, Rita. And behave, Homer, or your sister will throw you out." He knew Rita would ask her lowly and injured half-brother to spend the rest of his days living at her comfortable home. His liver disease was so advanced, his time was limited. The brother and sister would be happy together during the months that remained. And Homer might have a chance to see Hayworth House glow like it had in his youth.

Turning through the familiar hospital corridors, Shawn ruminated on the progression of the case—and the end of it. He wasn't surprised about Tim Westcott turning out to be part Hayworth. Tim had probably guessed for years that his father's lineage was… questionable. As to what had really happened to Anabel—Shawn still couldn't think about it.

He had to think about it two evenings later, though, when Kat, Hank's case worker, came by. The situation involving Hank Ingelow was generally unsettled, and Kat saw no reason to remove him from his foster home—not at present. "No one in Missouri's shown an ounce of interest in him," Kat said, standing on the patio on a lustrous Santa Barbara evening. She still said the harrowing phrase as if it glistened with good news. "There's a second cousin that's older, but she's got a mighty brood of her own—four kids!—and not one of them speaks Hank's language."

"He can read lips a little," Shawn interpolated. It wasn't helpful, but it explained Hank's awareness of his mother's death, what'd happened, what he'd seen, and how he would be obliged to be a witness against his own grandmother and his own father at the upcoming trial. Shawn ached at the thought—and tried to change the subject. "Well, there's nothing Lassie and I want more than to keep Hank here—as long as Hank's happy about it. Right, Pooch?"

Carlton refilled Kat's glass of lemonade. "Of course. As long as Hank's okay with it. We're meeting with admissions at St. Francis on Friday."

"Oh! Good!" Kat was so pleased that she laughed. "He should be in school. He's pretty bright, isn't he?"

"Yeah," said Shawn, "that was part of his problem back in Missouri. After his parents separated, he threw himself into schoolwork to sort of keep himself out of their problems. He was supposed to skip the fifth grade, but his father wouldn't let him, and his grandmother wasn't really in favor of it, either. The only one who was, was Anabel."

"The ex take the opposite argument? That never happens," Kat said, clearly sarcastic. "I'm sure that just bred more contention among the family. So Mrs. Ingelow brought Hank out here so she could handle his education without the interference of her family."

"It was hard on her," Carlton said, who had an understanding of how family dynamics could go wrong, "when her own mother sided with Zack about Hank's education. But Anabel had second thoughts about the school when she found out that the jewelry store nearby suffered an armed robbery."

"And she wasn't too sure about St. Francis' diversity and their anti-bullying policy. She wanted Hank to feel safe."

This bewildered Kat. "Diversity?"

Shawn told her that Hank was gay.

"Gay?" echoed Kat. She couldn't quite realize that not everyone's coming-out story was the same. "I thought he was eleven."

Shawn pretended not to be amused. "Lassie, you wanna take this one?"

"Er," Carlton tried to look Kat in the eye, remembering her very loud lesbian wedding, "no, I don't think so. He has a boyfriend, though, back in Missouri. Leighton. Leighton—uh—Kellaway."

"We like Leighton, don't we?"

"We do." Carlton had seen the two boys communicating via sign language over Skype last night, and Leighton was very courteous to Hank's guardians. He called them "Mr. Spencer" and "Mr. Lassiter." He thanked them for letting him speak to Hank. "He has a slight hick accent."

"That accent's very comforting," Shawn added. "So, anyway, Kat, we'll call you after our meeting with the administrators at St. Frank's. After that, though, Hank will probably be in school."

Kat had scheduled appointments to talk to Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow, but those meetings would take place after their arraignment dates so that more information on Hank's time in Santa Barbara would be known. Kat knew only a little about the case, what she'd read in the paper and heard from Carlton and Shawn.

Kat talked to Hank a little before she left, just to see if he was telling the truth about his level of comfort with Carlton and Shawn. Not that she had any doubts about Hank's contentment. She wasn't even sure he would undo his father being in jail, but if he could have his mother back— Kat gave him a hearty smack on the shoulder as a means of farewell. Back on the patio with Shawn and Carlton, Kat poked Shawn's sternum so hard he had to rub the soreness out of it.

"If I ever find out that you misinterpreted—_lied_—about what Hank Ingelow just said to me, I will sew sandpaper into all your underwear—and don't you think I won't, Shawn Spencer! I might even sprinkle that sandpaper with a bit of cayenne pepper! Mmm-hmm! That's right! You heard me! I said _cayenne pepper_!"

Shawn stared, actually speechless for once in his life. Carlton, lounging at the picnic table, shoved a potato chip into a smiling mouth.

But Kat broke into a cackle. "I'm just messing with you, Shawn! Ah, ha! Got you! All right, I'm out! Bye, darlings." She smooched Shawn's cheek, left a pat at Carlton's shoulder, and told him to call her after the appointment Friday.

Exhausted, as he usually was after a visit from Kat, Shawn leveled his butt against Lassie's thighs. "I think it's going to be a rough couple of months, Pooch."

"We'll get through it. For a bunch of fags, we're kinda tough."

Shawn snickered. "You are our rock, though. And a very comfortable sofa when one isn't around. Is now a good time to mention that my uncle wants me to baby-sit the horses for a few days in December?"

"Now's probably a fine time to mention that. I'm having a good evening—it's always extremely peaceful when Kat leaves."

"I've noticed that, too." Shawn played with Lassie's ears, rubbing his thumbs over them, and noticing his sideburns. "Are you growing your sideburns out, or—what's going on with your sideburns? Is there an Elvis Impersonator Award up for grabs at the police station that I don't know about?"

Carlton grinned at him, caressed one of Shawn's forearms. "I didn't want to tell you about the impersonator contest because I didn't want you to beat me."

"Well, I'll let you have this one." Shawn couldn't resist stealing a kiss. "Do you think I'll be able to go?"

"Where? Oh, right, your uncle's. December's a long ways away, Shawn. Is this something you want me to do with you?"

"Oh, no—no. I'll only be gone three nights. It's not really worth you getting the time off. I mean, if you're going to go on vacation, it should be for more than three nights. Uncle Fenz just wants to go with some of his buddies out to Las Vegas. Gamble, drink, hit on the ladies. The usual."

"Yeah, because Uncle Fenz is such a ladies' man. Well, if you want to go," he patted the side of Shawn's rump, "then go. If Hank's still here and you want to take him with you—"

"No," Shawn hesitated, "I mean—no. Sorry, there's just not really a nice way to say the word 'no,' is there?"

Carlton smiled a little. "No."

"Yeah, exactly. I just mean that Hank and I already have our connection. We're all knotted up and stuff. We have a good father-son dyad going."

"And you want me to work on mine with him," Carlton interpreted. He tucked his hands against Shawn's waist and made them a bit cozier. "I don't have a problem with that. I hope that, by December, we have our own father-son dyad going. And I promise to work harder on my ASL."

"I know you will. Just remember: Nonmanual Signals and Sign Space are your friends. But you'll learn more, you will. You're a good man. And don't forget to water Brad for me. We might have another important person in our lives now, but that's no reason for Brad and his Xenophettes to get jealous." Shawn left a wet kiss on Lassie's forehead. "I love you in a sick, sick way, Pooch, and nothing will ever cure me."

Shawn left squeaky smooches across Carlton's face, a less facetious one at his mouth. They snapped apart with a throat clearing a few yards away. Shawn squinted at Gus, then remembered that they had an appointment. It was weird making appointments to see your best friend, but they did what they had to do now that they were both busy in ways that separated them.

In the Strawberry, Shawn resigned himself to Gus's explicit need for secrecy. It was kind of annoying. He didn't like not knowing where they were going. "Is our destination the new strip club over on Height? I hear they have really amazing food. Delicious buns."

Gus couldn't let that one go. "Bad pun, Shawn. Really bad."

"It would've been funnier if I'd said it in an Australian accent." Shawn repeated it in said accent, "Really amazing food and very delicious buns. Crikey."

Gus bobbed his head, not disagreeing that it did sound a bit funnier. "Just a bit, though. And, no, no strippers involved. No White Party. Nothing that's gay enough to be mentioned in a _Queer as Folk_ episode, or a C. Jay Cox film."

In a couple of turns, they were at the edge of the world: right along the ocean. Gus parked the Strawberry with a practiced movement in a familiar parking space, in front of a recognizable building.

Out of the car, Shawn stood in front of the Psych office. His feelings churned. It didn't look like the deserted building it should've been, given that they'd let their lease expire once hearing the news that the whole building was for sale. Gus's elbow dug into his arm, and Shawn knew what'd happened.

"You kept this place?"

Gus was beside himself with excitement and joy. He bounced a little, smiling. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Yeah, Gus, that much is pretty clear. How hard can it be to say something like that—to me?"

"I didn't just keep this place, though, Shawn. I tapped into some equity, sold some stocks—and I bought it. Actually, I bought the whole building. The other shops, too. I. Own. It."

This was a surprise to Shawn, one that carried the warmth of pride and friendship. "Way to go, Landlord Guster! Real Estate Mogul Burton!" Shawn flung his gaze back to the Psych office. His heart thumped in the beat of nostalgia. "This was good of you, man. But what are you going to do with it?"

"Hang on to it for a bit. Just in case."

Shawn believed Gus would be waiting around for a while, if he thought the two of them would be solving mysteries anytime soon. But Gus made a placating gesture.

"I know what you're going to say. I know our lives have kind of blown up the last couple of years. But I don't want to give up on Psych just yet. I don't think you do, either. Those were some of the best times we ever had together. The bad stuff—yeah, it was pretty bad. I've a running tab on how many times I've had a gun pointed at me because of some case we were working."

"I still opine that it never happened to you more than three times."

"You're going to keep on believing that, aren't you?"

"Probably until the end of time, yes."

"Right."

Shawn looked at the building he'd once thought of as a home. He felt sad and hopeful at the same time. Maybe he wasn't ready to give up on it yet.

"So we'll just have it around for a while," Gus continued. "If we need it, it's there for us. If we don't need it, it won't matter, because I own it. You know what else I'm thinking of buying?"

"At the rate you're going, Gus, probably all of Malibu." Shawn's breath caught. "Please don't say you're going to buy the Hayworth place!"

"Heck no! If I never step within fifty yards of that house again, it'll be too soon! But I do want to make a generous donation to Westcott's worthy cause. I think it should be a museum. As crazy as they were, the Hayworths were one of the founding families of Santa Barbara. And the reason I nearly lost my best friend to a premature and startlingly violent death. I didn't, though." Gus swatted Shawn on the back. "Not yet, anyway. I'm thinking of buying the old Gypsy Car Service. I have my real estate guy trying to find out if the owner's willing to sell it. I might be able to get it pretty cheap. The buildings themselves are worthless, but that land sure isn't. I'm willing to let you get in on that with me, if you'd like. Might make us a tidy bit of profit."

"I'll think about it," Shawn replied dumbly. "Money's going to be a little tighter for us than it used to be. It's not like St. Frankie's is a public school alternative. And eventually he'll want to go to college, and we should try to help him pay for that—although it's not like Lassie and I had any help from either of our parents when it came to the college thing. But I always do that."

"Do what? Let's walk a bit, stop and get churros." Gus took them to the path along the waterfront. He asked his question over again. "Do what?"

"Talk about Hank like he's going to be with us forever."

"Why shouldn't you talk like that? You don't know that he won't always be with the two of you. If it's up to Hank, he'd rather stay with you and Carlton. You can tell he would. Well, I can tell he would. So can Juliet. But I hear you about money being tight. Kids are a financial investment, as well as an emotional one, and something that is not to be considered lightly. If you want to do it right, you have to be committed."

Shawn wasn't too interested in the churros Gus bought for him. His thoughts wandered. From where they were, the Psych office was still visible. "I'm pretty committed. So is Carlton. It's just that unsettled feeling—like he could walk away—or someone could take him away."

"That won't happen. And so what if it did?"

He and Gus swung into a park bench, then sat for a moment staring into the ocean, nibbling on churros. Shawn had a way to state what he'd been feeling. "It's not that I'm afraid that'll happen. It's that I fear the amount of fight in me, what I wouldn't do for him. That's—that's downright scary. Makes me feel all adult. And like I'm starting to understand my father. And how Carlton must've felt when he saw me wheeled into the hospital after Scobie tried doing away with me."

"That was pretty scary. Not just you being hurt—but Carlton. Chief Vick had him on homicide watch. Made him turn over his badge and gun for seventy-two hours. We all thought he was going to lose it. Even his attitude toward Juliet changed after that. She was the one who found you, the one who shot Scobie. I can't say that he respected her more. That's not it, not exactly. More like—like he _loved _her for what she'd done. You know, the kind of love that comes when someone does something you don't expect them to do. When they turn out to be your hero. Like you and Carlton are for Hank. And you know what, Shawn? You would fight for Hank. Maybe not in the same aggressive manner that Carlton would, but in your own way you would. When's your appointment at St. Frankie's?"

"Friday afternoon."

"The three of you still coming over to our place for dinner that night?"

Shawn nodded. _The three of you_. It still sounded strange, in a kind of wonderful way. "Yeah, we'll be there."

Gus looked relieved. "Good. Now let's head back to the car. I'll get you back to your family, and I need to get home to mine."

On the way back to Chez Sunberry, Shawn asked if he was supposed to bring anything Friday. "Is this an important event? Should I bring some wine?"

"Please, don't bring any wine. I know your taste in wine. And, you know, Juliet and I haven't had you guys over in a while, so we thought it was time."

Gus said it a little _too _casually. After grilling Lassiter about it, once they were tucked into bed for the night, Carlton admitted to knowing nothing about the dinner Friday being a Special Occasion. He advised Shawn not to be suspicious, and left a warm goodnight kiss to sail into dreamland on.

But the next day, Shawn and Hank went to their favorite quirky shops along State Street, and spent the rest of the afternoon wrapping up an assortment of baby-oriented gifts for Juliet and Gus. It turned out that the gifts were much appreciated. Shawn and Hank gave themselves a clandestine fist bump, solidifying their awesomeness.

-x-

With the months speeding by, very little changed for Shawn and Carlton. For Hank, things were not going to be like they were. As predicted, his grandmother and father pled guilty to the manslaughter charge. The IT team at the SBPD had recovered garbled and pixelated video from Anabel Ingelow's phone, the same one Shawn had dug out of the ground one night. The video was submitted as evidence against Nina Grayson and Zack Ingelow. They hadn't killed Anabel; she'd died of a heart attack as ruled by the county ME. But they had intended to hit her with the car. Nina Grayson was revving the engine when Anabel collapsed on the street. And, after that, the video came to a chilling, abrupt end.

Guilt and remorse began wearing Hank's father into mental fragility. Hank never visited him, never saw him outside of the courtroom. He had the same attitude for his grandmother.

The only person in Missouri he still had ties to was Leighton, and their bond was as strong as ever. They met every other night on the computer, for exactly ten minutes (give or take a minute), just to keep their relationship going.

As December came on, it was pretty obvious to Hank's foster parents and Leighton's parents that Leighton would be spending his winter break in Santa Barbara. Leighton's parents wanted to go somewhere romantic for Christmas, anyway. They eventually settled on Aspen, Leighton traveling as far as the Denver airport with them before Carlton, Shawn and, most importantly, Hank met him at the Santa Barbara airport.

"Daw, look at that, Pooch," Shawn said, watching Hank and Leighton give a nice little kiss to one another before flinging themselves into a tight hug. The year-older Leighton, clearly at the beginnings of a growth spurt, was inches taller than Hank, and easily picked his boyfriend off the ground at the height of their embrace. "Cute, huh?"

Carlton groaned a little, but he was clouded in niceness when Leighton and he met.

Shawn signed to Leighton that Hank hadn't lied, that his hair really _was _nice.

Over the next week, Leighton grew more comfortable, and the boys grew more comfortable around one another after a long time apart. They even had little fights that Shawn smiled at and that Carlton took too seriously. The boys didn't. Obviously not strangers to tiffs, they fought, they made-up, they kissed, they were best friends again. "Their love is so epic it's a Katy Perry song," Shawn quipped when the boys got over one of their little spats.

Christmas Eve, when Leighton and Hank were getting ready for bed, and Carlton was about to head over to Juliet and Gus's to pick up the presents hidden there, Leighton tiptoed into the kitchen. He eyeballed the funky Swedish alphabet magnets while Shawn, drying dishes, and Carlton, washing dishes, noticed him. Leighton wasn't reserved, and had no trouble telling them what he wanted to tell them.

"I just want to say thanks for looking out for Hank so well. He's so different than he was in Missouri. Not in a bad way. A good way. He used to be shy. Afraid of himself. And me. He didn't like it when we held hands or even sat near each other when we were over at his dad's house. It's like he's more himself now. So," he halted to nod at them, "so thanks."

"We must be doing something right," Carlton said to Shawn when Leighton had gone from the kitchen. He pulled the stopper out of the sink and quickly dried his hands on the damp towel Shawn held. "All right, I'm off to get presents."

"What'd you get me?" Shawn teased, running his damp hand up Carlton's abdomen.

"Cold! Cold wet hand up my freakin' shirt! Shawn!" Carlton backed from Shawn, grabbed the towel and rubbed Shawn's face with it. Through with the roughhousing, Carlton kissed him. "I love you, sweetheart, and so I feel safe in telling you that I didn't get you anything for Christmas."

Oddly enough, that was _almost _true. Shawn had only one present from Carlton under their little four-foot tree: a new astrology ephemeris for the upcoming year. It wasn't a useless gift, as far as that went, but Shawn was a bit stymied. Carlton admitted that he'd run out of time and couldn't find anything else for Shawn before Santa Claus came to town.

And on the twenty-eighth, Shawn left for his uncle's, returning late New Year's Eve. Given that the weather was tolerable—it was in the middle fifties—Shawn's checked bag, a requirement for flying on those tiny biplanes to and from the Los Angeles airport—was anticipated at the open-sided baggage claim beside the terminal. Shawn met Hank and Leighton there, both boys hugging him within an inch of his life.

"Good grief, it's not like I was gone that long!" he shrieked, then signed it for Hank, who laughed in his quiet way and hugged him again. Shawn was pleased to have been missed so much. Now that Hank had his own phone, he could text Shawn whenever he liked. Having Leighton around, though, Hank's messages were kept to a minimum, usually "Good morning!" and "Goodnight!" Shawn appreciated their overtly enthusiastic greeting. Carlton's was more subtle, no less fantastic for its subtlety. Even in front of the thirteen other strangers that waited for their luggage, Carlton didn't mind giving his boyfriend a very thoroughly hello. Shawn didn't mind, either.

He was surprised to find that his dad was there, and a kind of strangeness in his father's hug.

But when Juliet and Gus appeared, then Dobson and Dobson's Mike, Mike B. and Mike C. from the Tanglevine Club—and Lady Olga and her spouse Theodore, Jefferson Roberts, Tina Athens and Atlanta Morrissey from the country club—Shawn knew something was going on. And the line of friends didn't end there. A whole mess of people Shawn knew started flooding into the baggage claim. Tim Westcott, Chief Vick, Kat and Kat's wife; his old friends Dennis and Morgan, security guards and TSA agents and employees from the airport, and every cop from the SBPD that could be spared that Wednesday night.

"All right," Shawn laughed lightly, speaking through a clamped jaw, "whats going on, Lassie?"

Then every light overhead went dead. It took Shawn a second to realize there was a growing illumination, and it spun around in a horizontal line. Every person surrounding him had a small flashlight that was turned on, person to person. And somewhere music started to play—a soft acoustic guitar. In the unusual light, full of high contrasts and deep shadows, Shawn saw a guitar hanging from Mike Alwin's shoulders. Mike started to sing, and even before all the small flashlights were lit, everyone was singing with him. They had little cards with the words to Queen's song "You're My Best Friend." And they were _singing_. Even his dad was _singing_. Even Hank and Leighton, with their flashlights, were _singing_. Lassie, emphatically, was _not singing_.

Shawn could feel his heart beating wildly against every bone in his body. It was very beautiful, and very sweet, but astonishing. Shawn had never been so surprised in his whole life. What was everyone _doing _there? It was just a short vacation. Hardly four days! Only three nights! So why the Queen song, the lights, the unprecedented amount of people they knew? The bewildering bit receded greatly when Shawn spotted Carlton getting down on his knees.

Shawn was shaking so hard he could barely concentrate on what Carlton was saying. It wasn't a bit like last time, when Shawn had been a few days removed from a coma and Lassie, messy with exhaustion and tears, had asked him why they hadn't gotten married in the two years they'd been together. They'd even argued about it a little, like one of Hank's and Leighton's semi-sweet, sorta bitter fights. But Shawn had said no, that it wasn't the time, that it wasn't fair to them to think about it after what'd happened.

Now he had another chance to say the right monosyllabic response. If he didn't screw it up. If he could just say it.

_Say it, Shawn. Come on, you can do it. _

Carlton blinked up at Shawn. What was happening? Was Shawn so flabbergasted that he couldn't talk, or so embarrassed that he couldn't bring himself to say yes? Carlton's nerves sent another shock through him. He tightened his fingers around Shawn's hands. "Shawn?"

Shawn's inner voice kept playing the same phrase over and over. _Say yes. Say yes. Say yes. _But he couldn't quite get there. He gazed around at the crowd, to Gus and Jules, his dad, the Mikes; Hank, who beamed at him; and Carlton, who shone with something only Shawn had kindled.

_Life is ridiculously good_.

Shawn inhaled, caught it in his throat against a splurge of happiness.

_Say yes. Say yes. Say yes… _

"Yes."

-x-

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